The Dangers of Buying Birthday Presents
by TierneyMacDonald
Summary: All Kayla Abbots wanted was to find a birthday present for her sister. Instead, she finds herself sucked into the backstage of one of the most classic musicals of all time. 2004 movieverse.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. All credit goes to Andrew Lloyd Webber and respective owners. **

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1

All Kayla Abbots wanted was to find a birthday present for her sister.

The only reason she had wandered into the old antique and jewellery shop in the first place was to get her hands on some kind of gift. When she saw the beautiful ruby rose hung on a delightfully old-fashioned gold chain, her only thought was that she had seriously lucked out.

Sunlight crawled through the dusty window as Kayla strode happily to the till. As he rang up her purchase, the elderly proprietor of the shop gazed at the necklace amusedly. "Did you know that this necklace was intended for film?" he revealed conversationally.

Kayla looked up from the depths of her purse, where her wallet was trying to play hide-and-seek. "Not a modern movie, I have no doubt," she laughed. "It's too classy for that… which movie was it?"

The old man smiled. "The Phantom of the Opera," he confided. "Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical, of course." He spoke the composer's name with undisguised reverence.

"From 2004?" Kayla clarified, and grinned. "Was it intended for Emmy Rossum?" she guessed as she handed over the required bills.

The gentleman nodded proudly. "Yes, for the beautiful Christine Daäe. A pity that this piece never made it into the film itself," he sighed.

"This is perfect!" Kayla remarked excitedly, not bothering to inquire as to how a Hollywood set piece had made its way to an antique store in Calgary of all places, though she did not doubt the man's honesty. "It's my sister's birthday get-together tonight, and I've been looking for a good present for ages. Samantha adores Phantom of the Opera; she'll love this more than words can describe."

The old man's face relaxed into a patchwork of delighted crinkles. "I've always fancied this artifact," he mused. "I will be able to rest easy now, knowing that it will be going to a good home. Your sister is quite a fan, I take it?"

"Obsessive, more like," Kayla answered airily. "She knows almost everything; the book, the movie, the musical… she's seen it all. She can literally recite the movie off from memory, and she's got this crazy knack for knowing all of the characters and how they all interact and why. Plus she plays clarinet, piano, and guitar, so she can play all the songs as well."

"Your sister sounds like quite a fascinating person," the man chuckled.

"She'd live in that world if she could," Kayla shook her head ruefully.

"Powerful wishes like that have a way of coming true in different ways," the man suggested softly. "Be sure to wish your sister a happy birthday from me."

"Will do! Thank you very much!" Kayla waved cheerfully, tucking the simple paper bag into her purse as she pushed open the glass door. As she walked over to her car, she made a mental note to visit that shop again; it could be quite the treasure trove of props and accessories, and also housed a chance for some decent, interesting conversation. Kayla went into a reverie as she considered all the history and stories that were hidden on the shelves.

Fat, thick flakes of snow floated gently down out of a grey sky as Kayla slid into her car and placed her bag and the precious present onto the passenger seat. _If I can get home fast enough, I can wrap this and still make it to Mom and Dad's for Samantha's party by seven_, she mentally calculated as she pulled away from the curb.

Kayla was so focused on making it back to her downtown apartment in time to wrap the stupid present and still be on time for the party that she almost ran a red light. She just barely avoided entering the intersection as the light changed, but as there was barely anyone on that particular road at the time, she thankfully did not cause an accident. What she _did_ cause, however, was for the necklace to slide out of its bag, out of her purse, and fly in a graceful arc towards her car floor. Kayla did the stupid thing and lunged for it, catching the delicate chain by the tips of her fingers. "Oh no, you don't," she warned the inanimate object, trying to keep her eyes on the road as she put the present back into the bag. While attempting this, her fingers brushed, for the first time, against the jeweled petals of the pendant.

There was a bright flash of light, immediately followed by complete darkness. She felt her stomach trying to make an escape through her throat as she fell, but the only thing she could truly comprehend at the moment was how late she was going to be for her fourteen year old sister's party.

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**Read and Review! **

**Thanks! Tierney**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Ownership of the Phantom of the Opera is held by Andrew Lloyd Webber, Gaston Leroux, and other such owners. I only take credit for my original characters. **

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2

Kayla landed with a jolt on what felt like the plushiest carpet she had ever encountered. Stumbling backwards, she found herself sitting on an equally plushy chair, which her exploring fingers identified as being covered with velvet. A blind reach forward uncovered velvet curtains bunched off to her left. It was still black as pitch, meaning that she was blind as a bat. Further exploration revealed that her black leather messenger bag was sitting on a seat next to her, and the necklace that was currently taking the blame for this mess was hanging around her neck. "What the heck?" she whispered. Pulling the pendant from its position on her collarbone, Kayla gave it a gentle squeeze. Nothing happened. "I need to get home, I need to get home, I need to get home," she prayed, and pressed her fingers to the carved ruby for a second time. The result was the same.

"Well, screw you!" Kayla hissed angrily, imagining that the rose was laughing at her. She swore again. As the curse crossed her lips, she heard footsteps echoing somewhere in front of her. Shrinking back into her seat, Kayla waited in silence as the footsteps continued, slowed, and stopped. There was a whoosh, and a flicker of light below her. The light began to move and multiply until a curved line of flame illuminated the dark, polished wood of a large stage. With an electrical-sounding hum, a soft glow began to emanate from above Kayla's head. Growing brighter and brighter, flickering gas bulbs glittered and sparkled through the crystals of an enormous chandelier. Kayla slowly got up and peered over the edge of the half wall that stood in front of her chair. Below her there were rows and rows of gorgeous looking red velvet chairs, with pristinely polished armrests. Gold embossed private seating boxes jutted out from the high walls, and blindfolded statues proudly gallivanted on the ceiling. To her right, Kayla saw the scenery on the stage shifting – an unmistakable sign of a rehearsal. It took another long look at the chandelier to make her realize where she was: the Opera Populaire.

Kayla continued to watch the stage, crouching down under the edge of her opera box in an attempt to stay completely out of sight. Musicians of all varieties were streaming into the orchestra pit, lugging their instruments along with them. The conductor, whose name Kayla believed to be Maestro Reyer, was arranging piles of sheet music on a small podium. As the orchestra began to warm up, the performers bustled onto the stage. Carlotta, the A-class diva, followed by her husband, Piangi… at least, Kayla thought he was her husband. She wasn't positive. Samantha would have known. Countless others came after. From her position, Kayla had a constricted view of the rows of dancers stretching in the wings, led by the always impressive Madame Giry, whose name was impossible to forget. As she watched, two more ballerinas sprinted into the line; the short, golden haired Meg Giry, and OH MY GOODNESS EMMY ROSSUM! No, Kayla reflected - after her inner fangirl had suitably calmed - Christine Daäe. There was no kidding around with this now; Kayla was undeniably in the Phantom of the Opera.

Very slowly, an awful truth began to dawn upon her. She realized that she was sitting in an opera box, on the right side of the stage when facing it, and seemed to be higher up than any box in the immediate vicinity. And there was a column in the back corner. Every piece of description of the infamous haunted box from the book and the movie came hurtling back to her with all the force of a runaway train. Oh no. Whatever force that had brought her here couldn't seriously be that morbid. Clutching her bag tightly to her chest, Kayla cautiously crawled around the edge of the wall towards the door. When she guessed she was out of sight of the stage, Kayla rose to her feet and slunk out the door. Shutting it behind her, she stared at the dark, polished wood in horror; it bore an ornate, golden 5. She, Kayla Abbots, had been sitting in the Phantom's box.

"_Skitprat, skitprat, skitprat_!" she shrieked curses in Swedish. In a fit of desperation, she twisted on the spot and willed herself home. Obviously, nothing happened. "Well, disapparation's out of the question," she muttered crossly.

And just to cap the whole debacle off, Kayla heard footsteps approaching down the hall. Fantastic. She was going to have to interact with movie characters in an 1870 setting; of all the days to have been wearing… As she looked down and registered her state of attire, her inner monologue cut short.

Where there had been a knee-length skirt, black tights, and a red sweater seemingly only minutes before, there was now a black vest over a starch white, button-up work shirt with sleeves buttoned at the wrists, and black breeches that fit her not unlike skinny jeans. Whether the hems of the pants flared out Kayla did not know, since they were tucked under sculpted, heeled leather boots. In short, the only things that had not changed were her underwear, bra, and her hair, which was still darkly-streaked blonde and in a ponytail. The rose pendant hung out over the shirt, so Kayla hurriedly stuffed it back under the buttoned collar. The voices drew closer as Kayla slung her bag over her shoulder. Quietly making sure the box door was firmly closed behind her, Kayla waited silently as three impeccably dressed men came strolling around the corner.

"The cast and crew are currently rehearsing Hannibal, which will be performed at tonight's gala," the man in the lead was explaining as the trio approached. The two following were wearing thick, glossy furs, and carrying the most ridiculous top hats Kayla had ever seen. One of them, whose dark brown hair was swooshed back so high over his head Kayla was mentally debating whether a set of teacups would be able to stand up if stacked on top, looked up at Kayla absentmindedly before jumping backward as the reality of her presence registered. His companions looked just as, if not more, startled.

"Pardon me, mademoiselle, but how did you get in here?" the first man asked hesitatingly. Kayla decided that he must be the original manager- the one who was retiring. In the book, she was pretty sure his name was Poligny, but she had a feeling that in the movie-verse this assumption was incorrect.

Since the notion of parallel universes, let alone cinema, would likely not sit well with three Frenchmen from 1870, Kayla replied honestly, "My apologies, monsieur, but I do not actually know." She examined the three men quickly, intent on identifying them. There was Monsieur not-Poligny, dark-haired with a tidy mustache, a second brunette with a silver and brown mustache- Firmin- , and a fellow with a grey curly hairstyle and mustache that Dori from the Hobbit would likely have approved of, Monsieur Andre.

"Oh! I know you!" she blurted out as she recognized the two new managers.

They appeared slightly taken-aback. "I do not believe we have met," Firmin commented in a bewildered sort of voice.

"Oh no, of course not," Kayla amended quickly. "I've just heard great things about your work in the jun… I mean, scrap metal business. It is an honour to meet you at last, Monsieur Andre and Monsieur Firmin." She curtsied, which was incredibly difficult to pull off in pants.

Andre's cheerful face grew pleased. "You see, Firmin?" he exclaimed to his partner. "There _are_ people who understand the nature of our former profession." He turned his beaming smile on the nervous girl. "What is your name, mademoiselle?"

"Kayla. Kayla Abbots," Kayla stated clearly, pleased that her voice remained perfectly steady.

Andre turned to not-Poligny. "You don't mind if I conduct a brief interview with Mademoiselle Abbots, do you dear Leverfe?"

_Finally, a name!_ Kayla silently rejoiced.

The former manager shook his head. "Even though I am incredibly curious as to how this young lady made it into the Opera Populaire undetected, dealing with her is no longer my duty. You may proceed, sir."

Andre's smile was worthy of a Cheshire cat. "How old are you, Ms. Abbots?"

"Twenty, sir," Kayla replied.

"Do you have any educational background or theatre experience?"

Kayla grinned and answered truthfully, "I have been a university student in Canada for three years, sir, and I work part time at the theatre, opera, and ballet there as well."

"Canada? How extraordinary," Andre turned to Firmin delightedly. For Kayla, who had been expecting sexism in regards to her education, this was a happy twist. "What kind of work did you do there?"

"I studied fashion, art, design, and a few engineering courses, so I mostly helped our backstage, with the costumes, makeup, and scenery sets," Kayla shrugged modestly. Inwardly, she sighed. Samantha, the musical genius of the family, would have had no trouble whatsoever getting a job here.

"You're hired."

Wait, what? "I beg your pardon?" Kayla gaped.

Andre's look could only be described as smug. "It would be an honour to have you working for us backstage. You would be working with the set crew, and with the costumes as well if we can manage it." Firmin nodded his approval. "Of course, you would be required to reside her at the opera house," Andre added casually. "I hope your family would have no objections?"

Kayla nearly whooped at this unexpected twist of luck. "No, no objections, monsieur," she grinned. "My family's back in Canada, so I had nowhere else to go anyway." If, of course, she could ever tell her sister, Samantha would never believe that it had been so easy to scoop up a job at the Opera Populaire.

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**Author's Note: Thanks for reading, take a moment to review if you liked it or if you have any constructive criticism. Feel free to PM me if you have any questions!**

**Thanks!**

**Tierney**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Webber, Leroux, and other such owners. I only own my original characters. **

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3

"If you would please accompany us down to the stage, Ms. Abbots," Firmin requested politely, holding out his arm. "After we observe a bit of the rehearsal, we shall find…"

"Madame Giry," Leverfe prompted.

"Of course, Madame Giry… and see about clothes and accommodations for you," Firmin concluded graciously.

Kayla nodded her head respectfully and took the manager's proffered arm, feeling significantly more appreciated that she had for years. In that fashion, the three men and Kayla continued the rest of the way to the stage. On their way, the foursome stopped near another entrance near the back of the building. Kayla was racking her brains and trying to figure out what on earth she was missing before she heard hoof beats and the clatter of wheels on the cobblestones. _Uh oh_, she thought.

A loud whinny flew in from the alley outside, and she heard the thump of someone leaping to the ground. Without further ado, a young man sprang through the door: a very young, very blonde Patrick Wilson. _Damn it_. Kayla bit her lip and took a deep breath to control herself. Having watched the movie more times than she could count thanks to Samantha's obsession, Kayla was no stranger to the appearance of Raoul de Chagny, but seeing him on screen was nothing compared to reality. He was much taller than Kayla, and richly dressed in a white cravat, vest, and long tan jacket. His blonde hair was only slightly shorter than hers, much to her surprise. But Kayla had no choice but to admit it; he was a looker.

"Monsieurs!" Raoul greeted strongly, reaching out to shake their hands. "I hope I'm not too late."

"Not at all," Firmin reassured, returning the handshake enthusiastically.

"Glad you could make it, Vicomte," Andre interjected.

Raoul's warm hazel eyes scanned the group in front of him before landing with a guarded curiosity on Kayla. "And who is this?" he asked charmingly. Kayla struggled to keep down the blush that she could feel rising in her tanned cheeks.

_Dear heaven, I'd tap that_, one part of her brain was smirking.

_He's taken_, another scolded.

_And may I ask why _the hell_ Christine gets to wheel two beautiful men at once?_ The reply snarkily emerged.

_We're not here to flirt with the characters._

_Of course not; it's just an added bonus. _

_Shut up. _

"Where are my manners? Vicomte, may I present mademoiselle Kayla Abbots, our newest crew member," Andre introduced proudly, puffing out his chest.

"It's an honour, Vicomte," Kayla said awkwardly, praying that she wasn't completely botching up period etiquette.

Raoul took Kayla's shaking hand in his gloved one and brought it to his lips. "The pleasure is all mine, mademoiselle," he replied graciously.

_But seriously, why not tap that? _

_Just shut up. _

"She is Canadian," Firmin added with the air of one revealing something exotic. Kayla snickered quietly. "She has studied theatre arts at their universities."

"Interesting," Raoul commented silkily, and his voice somehow made the bland word sound highly complementary.

"Shall we continue to the stage?" Leverfe interjected.

Nodding their agreement, the men followed the former manager, dragging Kayla along with them. Raoul fell behind as the managers and Kayla continued the rest of the way into the middle of the stage.

The cast and crew were in an uproar, and the rehearsal was in a fabulous state of disarray. When the conductor, Maestro Reyer, saw the managers coming, he visibly groaned and put his hand to his forehead. "Monsieur Leverfe, I am _rehearsing_!" he protested through gritted teeth.

"My apologies, Maestro Reyer, Madame Giry," Leverfe acknowledged, not sounding the least bit guilty. When he called for attention, the whole cast and crew stopped what they were doing to listen, and even Carlotta, who was freaking out about something or another, fell silent. "As you know, for some weeks there have been rumours of my imminent retirement," Leverfe began. "And I can now tell you that these are all true."

"Aha!" Carlotta smirked at Piangi, who rolled his eyes. Kayla could not help herself but be thankful for landing in a completely recognizable scene of the movie.

"I would like to introduce you all to my replacements, Monsieur Richard Firmin and Monsieur Gilles Andre. You may have heard of their fortune, recently amassed in the junk business…" Leverfe continued.

"Scrap metal, actually," Andre corrected, winking at Kayla.

"And we would like to introduce the new patron of the opera, the Vicomte de Chagny!" Firmin announced.

The ballerinas trickled out of the left wings, and Kayla saw Christine mouth "It's Raoul!" before turning to look at the new patron making his grand entrance. All the female cast members were practically drooling.

"My parents and I are honoured to support all the arts, especially the world renowned Opera Populaire," Raoul responded smoothly. Kayla watched Christine's complexion become even rosier as her doe-brown eyes remained fixed on the Vicomte.

"May I present Signora Carlotta Giudicelli, our leading soprano for five seasons," Leverfe sighed as the olive-skinned prima donna approached and curtsied. Carlotta's fan club applauded. Piangi huffed. "And Ubaldo Piangi, our leading baritone," Leverfe added hurriedly.

"It is an honour, signor," Raoul inclined his head in greeting. "I believe I am keeping you from your rehearsal; I shall be here this evening to share in your great triumph. My apologies, Monsieur."

"Thank you, Vicomte," Reyer murmured, looking distinctly relieved.

Raoul bowed and walked briskly off the stage, passing Christine and Meg on his way without a glance. Both dancers looked distinctly put out. "He wouldn't recognize me," Kayla saw Christine mutter.

"He didn't see you!" Meg silently protested.

"From the top then, ladies and gentlemen!" cried the conductor, ushering the managers off to the side of the stage. Kayla scurried after them as the ballerinas sashayed onto the stage. She was only half-listening as Madame Giry spoke to Firmin and Andre in her fabulous French accent, pointing out her daughter, Meg, and explaining Christine's tragic backstory. However, Kayla's attention was devoted to two things: Carlotta, whom, if Kayla's memory served her correctly, was going to have a freak out in about a minute; and the beam that would fall on the diva when the yelling began.

The little catalysts began to line up' Firmin and Andre's appreciative eyeing of the ballet corps, Carlotta's dress getting stepped on, and the grand dance finale, in which the twirling of the dancers conveniently blocked Carlotta from view. "The Vicomte is very excited for tonight's gala," Leverfe assured Firmin and Andre weakly. As Kayla had not-so-mysteriously foreseen, the prima donna snapped.

"Alora, alora, alora," the furious soprano greeted sarcastically as she stormed over. "I hope that the patron is as excited by dancing girls as your new managers, because I will not be singing! Bring me my doggy!" she shrilled, turning to leave.

Kayla felt slightly sorry for the new managers, but she had to admit that the accusations of creepy attention to the dancers were not completely unfounded.

"What do we do?" asked Firmin blankly.

"Grovel," said Leverfe promptly. "Grovel, grovel." And so the two managers did exactly that while Carlotta let out some obviously fake sobs.

"Isn't there a lovely aria for Elyssa in act three of Hannibal?" suggested Andre faux-casually. Reyer rolled his eyes.

"I do not have my costume for act three, because somebody not finish it!" Carlotta shrieked, her wild Italian accent becoming even more pronounced in her rage. "And I hate my hat!"

Kayla, being about the same height as Firmin, did not have to raise herself at all as she muttered into his ear. "I'll do it. I could finish that dress in ten minutes."

"That will most likely be necessary, mademoiselle," Firmin whispered back. Regrettably, this exchange did not pass unnoticed by Carlotta.

"Of course it is necessary!" the furious soprano shouted. "Who is zis ridiculous girl and what is she doing on my stage?"

"Your stage?" Kayla quipped sassily.

"This is Mademoiselle Kayla Abbots; she will be working with the costumes and scenery starting this evening," Firmin introduced.

Carlotta turned on him immediately. "Then she should be backstage instead of ruining my rehearsal!"

"How about you come over here and make me leave?" Kayla offered dangerously. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw some of the dancers, Meg and Christine included, giggle at her comment. This support made Kayla smile. "As a member of the crew, I have as much of a right to be here as you do," she challenged.

Carlotta's chocolate eyes narrowed.

"Signora, I was hoping you would honour us with a private rendition," Andre cut in.

Carlotta's face softened. "If my managers command," she agreed with a weak laugh.

"We do," Firmin muttered.

The red haired Italian bustled to the middle of the stage. "Maestro?"

"If my diva commands," Reyer accepted sarcastically, stepping up onto the conductor's podium.

"Yes, I do," Carlotta snapped. Fidgeting with her hair and incredibly wide dress, Carlotta positioned herself until she was assured everything was perfect. Shooing the rest of the cast out of her way, she took a deep breath and began to sing.

"_Think of me, think of me fondly_

_When we've said goodbye_

_Remember me, once in a while_

_Please promise me yoooooooou'll try…" _

As Carlotta warbled along, Kayla kept her gaze fixed on the catwalk above the stage, waiting for the disturbance she knew was coming.

"_When you find, that once again you long_

_To take your heart back and be…"_ Carlotta continued.

There! Kayla spotted a black cape whisk out of sight, and the beam began to fall. Lunging forward, Kayla bodily knocked Carlotta out of harm's way as the beam crashed onto the stage. As the diva and new stage assistant toppled to the floor, a second piece dropped to the ground directly between the two women. Carlotta and Kayla stared blankly at the object for a moment, their noses only inches from it. Quite frankly, Kayla was not at all surprised. The Phantom knew the Opera House so well and was such a criminal genius that he would most certainly have had a back-up plan. Carlotta moving must have been a surprise, though.

Despite the dangerously close encounter with a future spent in a wheelchair, Kayla felt slightly giddy. _The Phantom of the Opera just tried to kill me!_ her mind giggled.

Firmin and Andre raced forward to help her and Carlotta up. Carlotta started squealing before she was even on her feet.

"Buquet!" Leverfe barked. "For God's sakes man, what's going on up there?"

The infamous stage hand appeared mere seconds later.

"Don't look at me!" Joseph Buquet objected. "I didn't move it! God as my witness, I wasn't at my post!"

"I will make sure your salary is double this buffoon's if you perform better than he does," Andre muttered darkly to Kayla, who nodded vigorously. She could do better than Buquet, she was sure.

"Please monsieur, there's no one there!" While Buquet spoke, Kayla looked on as, unbeknownst to the others, Madame Giry walked into the wings and picked up the bone white envelope that floated gently to the floor. "And if there is," Buquet added evilly. "Well then, it must be a ghost."

"Or perhaps a drunken hallucination," Kayla interjected snidely. "Do us all a favour and cut back on the whiskey, Buquet." A group of young stage hands began killing themselves with laughter somewhere in the wings.

"These things do happen," Andre said weakly.

Carlotta was incensed. "For the past three years these things do 'appen!" She turned an accusatory finger on Leverfe. "And do you stop them from 'appening? NO!" she spat. "And you two!" she directed her wrathful gesture at the two new managers. "You are as bad as 'im! Until you stop dese things from 'appening, _dis thing_ doesn't not happen!"

With that, along with some angry Italian that sounded like curses, Carlotta stormed off the stage.

"Well, gentlemen," Leverfe started, clapping his hands together. "Good luck. If you need me, I shall be in Australia." With a bow, he turned and walked away.

"Australia?!" But Leverfe didn't answer, as he had already departed.

"I'm really leaving!" announced Carlotta's distant scream.

"Signora Giudicelli, she will come back, won't she?" Andre asked timidly. Reyer only gave an exasperated shrug.

Madame Giry approached Firmin and Andre from behind, the note held ever so gently in her delicate hands. "I don't think so, monsieurs," she answered Andre's query with a mischievous smile. "I have a message for you, monsieurs, from the Opera Ghost."

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**Author's Note: So we have our first glimpses of Raoul, Carlotta, Christine, Meg, and Madame Giry! Thanks for reading, review or PM me if you have any questions, comments, or constructive criticism!**

**Thanks!**

**Tierney**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber, Gaston Leroux, and others. _Think of Me_ belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber. I am only responsible for Kayla and any other original characters. **

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4

Kayla had to hide her smile as Madame Giry made her proclamation. The fact that she could literally see the midnight black splotches of ink and sharp cursive of the Phantom's note was just enforcing her feeling of delight that she was even in the same building as the elusive ghost.

"God in heaven, you're all obsessed," Firmin sighed.

The ballet mistress shot him a warning glance before continuing. "He welcomes you to his opera house," she explained, ignoring Andre's quiet protest in terms of ownership. "And he requests that you continue to keep Box 5 empty for his use… and he reminds you that his salary is due."

"His salary?!" gaped Firmin incredulously.

Madame Giry gave a birdlike nod. "Monsieur Leverfe used to give him twenty thousand francs a month," she commented, flipping her long, thick, silvery blonde braid over her shoulder.

"Twenty thousand francs?!" blustered Andre.

"Perhaps you can afford more?" the woman smirked, twirling her elegant black and gold cane over the polished floor. "With the Vicomte as your patron?"

"Well, Madame, I had hoped to made that announcement public this evening, when the Vicomte was to join us for the gala," Firmin sneered. "But it appears that we shall have to cancel, as it seems we have lost our star!" He shredded the Phantom's letter into tiny pieces as he looked wildly at Andre.

"Surely there's an… an…" Andre stuttered.

"Understudy?" one of the male cast members suggested.

"Yes! An understudy!" Andre cried, latching onto the word like a baby with a new toy.

"Understudy?! There is no understudy for la Carlotta!" Reyer snapped with more venom than Kayla felt was necessary. Firmin and Andre were not opera experts, after all; it was not fair to take out the stress of the situation on the new managers.

"A full house, Andre! We shall have to refund a full house!" Firmin moaned.

"Christine Daäe could sing it, sir."

There was a moment of stunned silence as Kayla and Madame Giry stared at each other; the ballet mistress and the new stage hand had spoken completely in unison. Kayla blushed and gestured at Madame Giry. "Sorry, désolé!" she apologized, switching to French halfway through the statement. "S'il vous plaît, continuer." She had gone out on a limb with the French, since in this movieverse most people spoke with British accents. It did, however, pay off with Giry, and no one reacted to the language change. Maybe French and English were pretty much interchangeable in this universe?

Madame Giry smiled at the embarrassed girl kindly. "Merci."

Kayla grinned to herself. _Don't take French, they said_, her mind jeered. _You'll never use Parisian _and _Canadian French, they said_.

"A chorus girl?" Andre scoffed. "Don't be silly."

"She has been taking lessons with a great teacher," Madame Giry said proudly, prodding Christine forward.

"Whom?"

"I don't know his name, monsieur," Christine admitted quietly. Kayla watched the interaction in awestruck silence.

"Let her sing for you, monsieurs," Madame Giry coaxed. "I assure you, she has been well taught."

"Oh oui, elle l'a fait," Kayla muttered. Madame Giry looked at her sharply, but at Kayla's returned guilty grin, her façade softened. No one else heard the aside.

Firmin and Andre reluctantly convinced Christine towards the front of the stage. "From the beginning of the aria then, mademoiselle," Reyer indicated kindly, raising his baton. Christine threw a questioning glance at Madame Giry, who nodded encouragingly.

"This is doing nothing for my nerves," Firmin muttered crossly.

"But she is very pretty," Andre returned in a tone suggesting that this fact alone solved all their problems.

"_Think of me, think of me fondly_

_When we've said goodbye_

_Remember me, once in a while_

_Please promise me you'll try…" _

Christine's melodious voice silenced everyone present. Kayla was amazed. Christine, or Emmy, as Kayla was referring to her in her mind, obviously had natural talent, but it was very clear that she had been subject to incredible coaching. If she hadn't already known about the Phantom, she would have been very inclined to believe the Angel of Music theory. So clear and sweet were Christine's notes that everyone stood still, waiting in respectful silence. As she flawlessly reached the finale, everyone present applauded. The managers immediately cast Christine as Elyssa, and there were no objections.

After this, the official rehearsal sort of fell apart, and groups of dancers and singers moved to separate sections of the stage to privately practice. Kayla, meanwhile, approached her new bosses. "My orders, sir?" she requested.

"Report to Madame Giry," Firmin decided finally, looking a little dazed. "She will see to your clothes and accommodations, and will be able to give you a more accurate picture of your duties this evening."

"Thank you, monsieurs," Kayla acknowledged, giving another awkward curtsey. Securing her bag over one shoulder, she slowly made her way over to the ballet mistress, who was directing the rest of the corps through another portion of the opera.

"Madame Giry?" Kayla began timidly. The older woman turned and looked at her expectantly. "I'm Kayla, the new stage hand? Monsieur Firmin said I should talk to you…"

"Mademoiselle Abbots, of course," Madame Giry stated crisply. "Please, come with me. Meg!" she barked at her daughter, who whipped around to face her mother. "Lead the others in the rest of the dances. I expect you all to have rehearsed up to act four by the time I return. Christine, my dear, you shall accompany me."

Christine Daäe hurried from Meg's side towards Kayla and Madame Giry. Kayla was nervous to say the least; as the movie had only displayed the magical transition from rehearsal to performance, she had no knowledge whatsoever about the events of the next few hours.

Madame Giry led the way off the stage through the wings, beckoning the two girls to follow. So they did, Kayla falling into step with Christine as if navigating opera houses with fictional characters was something she did on a regular basis. "Beautiful performance, Ms. Daäe," Kayla complimented, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.

Christine beamed at her. "Thank you, Ms. Abbots," she replied graciously, flashing ivory white teeth. "But please, call me Christine."

"I will, if you call me Kayla," Kayla conceded. If Samantha could see her now, her sister would be so jealous. "So I guess you are the Prima Donna now," Kayla remarked. "Your teacher must be very proud."

"I hope so," Christine murmured, twisting a piece of glossy brown hair around a pale finger.

"Oh, darling, I know so," Kayla reassured, giving a knowing smile.

Christine's delicate features bore an expression of shock. "You know the Angel of Music?" she asked in a hushed whisper.

Kayla laughed. "You could say that, but I doubt he knows of me," she explained. "The only musical talent I have is the amount of time I spend listening to it." Glancing slyly at the beautiful brunette out of the corner of her deep blue eyes, Kayla added, "I bet the Vicomte will be very pleased with your performance tonight as well."

Christine blushed, her white cheeks turning rosy, and Kayla smirked. No matter how pissed Samantha had been over the whole Erik and Christine dynamic and the Raoul Christine pairing, Kayla had always shipped the later; in some small way so that Samantha could unconsciously ship herself with the Opera Ghost. "Do you really think so?" Christine asked shyly.

"He'll be heading down to congratulate you before you're even finished singing, mark my words," Kayla assured. "I don't blame you at all; he's a looker."

"A looker?" Christine repeated, her doe brown eyes wide with confusion.

"He's handsome," Kayla amended. "You know him?"

"We were friends, when we were small," Christine told her, smiling bashfully.

"It's meant to be!" Kayla exclaimed dramatically, and the young soprano laughed. Looking up, Kayla saw Madame Giry waiting patiently by the door of the Prima Donna suite. As she had not been paying attention to their route through the halls, Kayla had no idea how they had gotten there. Considering that she was going to be living her for the foreseeable future, Kayla vowed to pay more attention to the routes through the labyrinth of an Opera House. Unfortunately, there would be no glittery monarchs in this particular maze, part of her mind pointed out. Just a dark, sociopathic overlord.

Gesturing the two girls into the large, ornate room, Madame Giry shut the wooden door behind them. "Come and sit here, my dear," the ballet mistress directed Christine, who did as she was told and gingerly sat down in a fancy chair in front of the dressing table. "You can sew, yes?" Giry rounded on Kayla, who nodded. "As you no doubt already found out from the former diva, the dress for act three is not yet finished." She waved her hand at a mountain of sparkling, snow-white fabric.

"I can do it," Kayla agreed. "Do you have a mannequin?" Madame Giry pointed over to it.

Reverently gathering up the dress, Kayla carried it over to the full body mannequin in the corner of room, across from where Christine was nervously perched. A pincushion as full of pins as a hedgehog, a box of sewing needles, and a wide range of expensive looking thread sat on a small wooden table. Slipping the partially completed dress onto the mannequin, Kayla threaded a needle and got to work. Luckily enough for her, one of her fashion teachers had given them an open final in their second year in which all the students were required to individually choose a movie costume and almost perfectly replicate it, using their own patterns and materials. Kayla had chosen a dress from Phantom of the Opera; ironically enough, the same dress she was now working on. She had aced that final in school, and had not yet forgotten the exact system in which the Act Three dress was pieced together and embroidered. She had even accounted for the corset in that final for accuracy! Yet she never could have expected that she would be working on the same dress twice.

As she stitched, she was able to watch Madame Giry carefully curling each of Christine's dark locks. Kayla's indigo eyes wandered from the shiny round mirrors of the dressing table, over the walls of Carlotta portraits and posters, and to the gold framed, floor-to-ceiling mirror…

Kayla jumped in her seat, unintentionally stabbing herself with the needle. "Dammit," she hissed, examining the damage. Her fingertip was oozing a few drops of blood, but it was nothing too serious, so she wrapped the wound in a Kleenex from her bag and kept working, surreptitiously watching the mirror. From this angle, it looked normal, nothing like the reflective windows that Kayla was used to seeing in airports. Unlike those windows, however, Kayla could not see through the glass of the mirror. At this very moment, the Phantom could be watching and no one would know it. _Stop trying to freak yourself out_, Kayla scolded herself, and attempted to return her focus to her work. In her peripheral vision, she could see Madame Giry pinning beautiful diamond flowers onto Christine's voluminous curls.

After forty-five minutes, Madame Giry came over to inspect the costume. Kayla tied off the final stich and set the needle aside, rolling her neck and shoulders to eradicate the stiffness of sitting still for over half an hour. "Finished?" Madame Giry inquired, running a critical eye over the full skirt and low bodice.

"Yes," Kayla affirmed cheerfully, running through a careful inspection of her own. "The embroidery was practically finished, but I still had to finish it up and do touch-ups, and damn is it complicated, so I spent most of my time on that. The bodice and skirt were about half-done, so I did that too. It took me longer than I expected, but it should do the trick."

Nodding regally, Madame Giry turned to Christine. "You may wait here until I return, my dear," she instructed. "Rest, and warm up your voice if you require it; you have a long night ahead of you." Peering at Kayla, she continued, "You, Ms. Abbots, will come with me, and we will see to your accommodations and job this evening."

Kayla scooped up her bag and followed, waving goodbye to Christine as she headed out the door. She carefully memorized every turn, staircase, and doorway until they reached one of the dormitories. "This will be your bed," Madame Giry gestured as they entered the large room. "I've put you next to Meg, so you will be in good hands."

"This is the dancers' dorm, isn't it?" Kayla pondered. She received a wary glance in reply.

"Yes, it is, but we could not have you rooming with those rascally stage hands, now could we?" At the foot of Kayla's tidy new cot, there was a sturdy wooden box, which Madame Giry opened with a key. Handing the key to Kayla, she explained, "You may keep all of your belongings in this box. And I take it you will need some clothing for when you are not working," she added, frowning at Kayla's pants. "I will bring you some suitable outfits tomorrow, but for now we must be off."

Kayla got the message and stuck her purse in the box, taking her iPhone with her. As soon as she locked the chest and stuck the key and phone into her pocket, Madame Giry led the way out of the dormitory.

* * *

**Translations**

**Unlike Kayla, I know neither Canadian nor Parisian French, so I ruefully attribute all errors in translation to Google Translate.**

***désolé - sorry**

****S'il vous plaît, continuer – Please, continue.**

*****Oh oui, elle l'a fait – Oh yes, she has**

**Author's Note: We're getting quite close to Hannibal! Thank you to all those who favourited, followed, and reviewed. I hope this chapter lived up to all of your expectations. Chapter 5 should be posted fairly soon! **

**Thanks! **

**Tierney**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber, Gaston Leroux, and other such people who are much more famous than me. I only own Kayla Abbots and any other original characters. **

* * *

5

There were still crew members milling about backstage, but Madame Giry led her past all of them to a dark corner, blocked from view by a giant shelf of masks and props. "Before we go any further, I must ask you," the woman spoke in a voice festooned with ice. "Who are you and what do you know about this opera house?"

Kayla's mouth dropped open, and she imagined that her face resembled some sort of dim bottom-feeder.

"Well?" Madame Giry demanded.

Resigned to the fact that she was probably going to get fired, Kayla gritted her teeth and decided that the truth was the only viable option at this time. After all, she knew things that could potentially sway the ballet mistress. "I'm Kayla Abbots," she began. "I am a nineteen year old university student from Canada. I'm from the future, I suppose, and a different universe, per say, and I have no idea how I got here." Madame Giry looked skeptical, so Kayla decided to persevere. "All of this," Kayla continued, waving her hand around them, "This opera house, these events, are a legend where I come from."

"Do you really think me so naïve as to believe this?" Madame Giry hissed.

"No, but I think you are an intelligent and reasonable woman who cares very much about this Opera House and your family, and as Erik is included in both of those categories, let me assure you I am not here to hurt him or get in his way."

Madame Giry recoiled as if Kayla had slapped her in the face. "How much do you know about him?" she whispered weakly.

"I know that you saved him from a gypsy caravan, where he was showcased as the 'Devil's Child' or some such bullshittery," Kayla listed breezily. "I know that you brought him here, and that he now lives beneath the Opera. He has fashioned a rather marvelous identity as the Phantom of the Opera, which ensures that no one cusses with him. You're kind of his mother, because his actual mom was not really a mom at all. He is also a genius in every sense of the word, he loves Box Five for some reason, and he is giving Christine Daäe singing lessons under the guise of an Angel of Music." Kayla tilted her head and frowned into the distance as the ballet mistress stood in stunned silence. "And he also dresses with more class than any man I have ever seen. Oh, and he's really quite attractive even with his so called deformity." She paused again. "And he's writing his own opera, and he's got an organ in the basement. Am I missing anything?"

Obviously Madame Giry had not predicted the full extent of Kayla's knowledge. Taking a deep, shaky breath, the woman said, "Very well. Which side of his face is deformed?"

"What?"

"I believe you," Madame Giry admitted calmly. "There is no one in this world that would be privy to such knowledge. But just to be sure; which side of his face is hidden?"

Kayla was stumped for a moment. Racking her brain, she mentally reviewed the movie scenes in which Erik's face was clearly visible. "The right side," she guessed cautiously. "He wears a white porcelain half-mask on that side."

Nodding sharply, Madame Giry took Kayla's arm and pulled her to a walk. "Does anyone else know what you do?" she murmured. "Have you told anyone else?"

Kayla shook her head. "In my world, almost everyone does," she explained. "But here, no one knows besides us."

"Good. Do not speak of this to anyone," Madame Giry ordered. "And no one else is to know where you have come from. He will already know that you are here, but I will try my best to assure he does not know from where. It would not fare well for the Phantom to have a grudge against you so soon."

This did not sound at all promising, but Kayla refrained from mentioning that opinion. For all she knew, the Opera Ghost could have overheard their entire exchange, and might at this very moment be plotting her demise. It occurred to her that she was no longer at home on the couch with Samantha, crying over the tragic life of a very attractive antagonist, but that the man whom she had once grieved for was very real, very intelligent, and probably murderous. She could not afford to get this wrong.

Madame Giry quickly toured Kayla through the backstage, showing her the areas to find props, set pieces, extra rope, and anything else she may need for work. A small, secluded office, by the exit to the main dressing room hallways, was the next stop. "Officially, this office belongs to Joseph Buquet," Madame Giry told her, not even bothering to hide the condescension in her voice as she said the man's name. "But he is a drunk and a fool, and does not use this space as he should. As you seem to be the type of girl to take your occupation seriously, I believe I could transfer the ownership to you." Madame Giry walked away, seemingly to search for something, giving Kayla a chance to look around.

The room was about the size of her walk-in closet at home, just big enough for a small desk, a chair, and a lamp. Shelves jutted out from every available wall-space, which would make navigating the cramped room even more difficult, but as every shelf was covered with books, Kayla did not mind at all.

"You will not likely spend very much time in this room," Madame Giry declared, pulling a black book the size of a large photobook off of a shelf in the far corner. "But you will need access to this room for these." Placing the volume on the desk, she gently opened the long cover. Inside was a plethora of artwork – images of set pieces, sketches of costumes, and tidy descriptions of the acts and scenes that the images depicted. "This is the set book of _Hannibal_," Madame Giry described. "This book will tell you which sets need to be moved or changed, and the cues for doing so. Each opera we perform has its own set book – _Il Muto, Faust_…"

"_Don Juan_?" added Kayla slyly.

Madame Giry gave her a puzzled look. "I don't believe we have every performed an opera with such a name."

"_Don Juan Triumphant_; it's _his_," Kayla whispered conspiringly, tapping the side of her nose cheekily.

Madame Giry smiled at her. "Sometimes, I think you know too much for your own good, my dear girl. No, we do not have a book for _his_ masterpiece; it's still in progress as far as I am aware."

Kayla carefully reached out and turned another page, revealing the designs for Elyssa's solo in Act Three. The art was flawless, and Kayla resolved to learn how to draw just as beautifully as this. Madame Giry looked on with a satisfied smile on her lined face.

"Would I be able to take this with me to performances, just until I'm able to memorize all the cues and pieces?" asked Kayla pleadingly.

Madame Giry studied her face for a moment. "Stage hands are not allowed to even touch the set books," she stated finally. "But as you appear to be an artist yourself, I know you will treat this book with the respect it is due." Kayla grinned broadly at her, and ever so gently picked up the set book. Rummaging through a box in the corner of the room, Madame Giry re-emerged with what appeared to be a bundle of leather. "Your belt," was her only explanation as she and Kayla worked to untangle the strips.

It took about four knots for Kayla to make the belt small enough for her waist. There was a loop of rope attached, a bag of chalk for her hands when climbing, and a few simple tools for repairing set pieces. There was even a pouch large enough to contain the set book. Madame Giry stepped back and looked Kayla up and down. "Bien," she pronounced finally. "You look like a true member of the crew." After a moment, she added, "I do think we should find you a more practical shirt for work; white dirties easily, but it will have to do for now. Come, I will introduce you to the others."

* * *

**Author's Note: This chapter is slightly shorter, but there won't be too long of a wait until the next one is posted. Thank you to everyone who has favourited, followed, or reviewed. Please feel free to review or PM me with any questions, comments, or constructive criticism. **

**Thanks!**

**Tierney**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: So I lied, I felt guilty for how short the last chapter was, so I decided to post the next one about five minutes later. Standard Disclaimer, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Gaston Leroux, and respective parties own Phantom of the Opera. Kayla and the other original characters - whom you will meet soon - belong to me. **

* * *

6

The other stage hands had already assembled by the time Madame Giry and Kayla found them. Most of them were young men, thin and wiry to the point of looking underfed, but with muscular arms. About seven of them looked over thirty-five, but everyone else looked under twenty, not including Joseph Buquet.

Joseph Buquet was the kind of man that made a person wish that they had a Taser accessible. Flabby, grubby, and perverse, Buquet was the last name in creep. Kayla knew for a fact that he had peepholes hidden throughout the backstage so that he could spy on the dancers. He had greasy grey hair, wild eyes, and thick, strong hands that were capable of breaking bones. And this was the man she would now be working with. Kayla swallowed nervously.

"Gentlemen," Madame Giry greeted in a tone that suggested that she was lying through her teeth with such a respectful title. "This is Mademoiselle Abbots; she will be working with you on the sets from now on."

The other crew members made no pretence of sizing her up, and Kayla fought to keep her expression completely neutral. She was no stranger to attempted intimidation. "What level?" one of the younger ones demanded.

"Catwalk," Kayla shot back without blinking an eye. She had worked on the highest, narrowest, and most dangerous section of the backstage ever since she had started working at the theatres in Calgary. A number of her new companions looked decently impressed.

"Well, that's a shame," another purred. "It would have been quite interesting to have you backstage, darling." A couple of others, Buquet included, laughed approvingly.

"You will address me by my surname only," Kayla requested icily. The blatantly obvious invitation offended her, and she was not going to take sexism from anyone in this opera house.

"All business, ma chérie?" the same teen wheedled. He stepped towards her, smirking. "A pretty girl like you, I bet you're not opposed to a bit of…"

He never got around to saying what he believed she was not opposed to. As he spoke, he reached out as if to touch her cheek. Before he could, Kayla snatched his wrist and in one, swift movement, flipped him onto his back. Holding his arm in a painful twist, she leaned over him, wisps of her blonde hair swinging into his face. "Let me make this perfectly clear," she snarled. "I may be a girl, but I am not here as a toy, and I am certainly not going to be sleeping around. I take my job seriously, and if you or anyone else tries that again, I will break every bone in your body. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Abbots," the boy choked, his eyes wide with fright.

Smiling darkly, Kayla released her hold and stepped away, brushing invisible dust off of her cuffs. Madame Giry looked shocked, but proud. "Good luck my dear," she told Kayla warmly, squeezing her shoulder. "I will be in the wings during the performance if you should need me. As for the rest of you," she turned to the twenty-one male stage hands. "This gala is very important for all of us, and it is imperative that tonight's performance runs smoothly. If I hear that any of you have been harassing Ms. Abbots instead of focusing on your work, you will have both myself and the managers to answer to." With that final warning, Madame Giry imperiously swept away.

As soon as Madame Giry disappeared, Kayla, propriety be damned, rolled up her sleeves, exposing her tanned forearms to the elbow. "So," she chirped, surveying the crowd of flabbergasted males. "Where do we start?"

For such a stressful beginning, Kayla assimilated quite well into her new peer group. Contrary to her predictions, they all were quite respectful to her. Even the smarmy guy, whom she had very violently put in his place, politely apologized for his behaviour, introduced himself as Jamie, and proceeded to defend her and her suggestions against any and all criticisms with the fierce devotion of a Rottweiler. The older men listened to her educated ideas and more often than not adopted them; the boys her age followed her every move with watchful, awestruck eyes; and a group of them leapt to obey her every command, vying for her attention in a courteous yet flirtatious way that Kayla found quite endearing. It would have been perfect save Buquet, who seemed rather annoyed with all the attention and respect that she was receiving, and fought against her from the start.

The stage was set up precisely according the set book well before the performers began trickling into the wings to prepare for the opera. From the other side of the red velvet curtains, Kayla could hear the orchestra trooping into the pit, and, if she listened hard enough, the very distant laughter of their audience. At this time, all of the stage hands scattered to their assigned positions – some in the wings, behind the biggest set pieces, and the balconies. Kayla, Buquet, Jamie, and another boy named Clemens were in charge of the balconies, with Kayla and Buquet working the highest catwalk, looking after the ropes and hanging pieces. Between acts, they would all report to the wings to help move the largest backgrounds.

Kayla found the job too intense to worry too extensively about Buquet and his stupidity, or Christine's rapidly approaching solo, or the fact that Raoul was seated in box five. However, she was acclimatized enough to backstage work that she was able to keep a running commentary running in her head. "This just got personal," she thought sourly as she glimpsed the Vicomte lounging in the Phantom's box. She imagined the Phantom's reaction when he realized that he had been denied his precious box so that his pupil's childhood sweetheart could use it.

As the cues began to line up and become more frequent, she was unable to dwell on the calamity that would eventually repay the trespass. Jamie very helpfully hissed instructions at her from his position on the balcony below, directed her to the pieces that needed to move.

Everything was going absolutely splendidly until Act Three. While Christine confidently took to the stage for Elyssa's solo, there was a decidedly less graceful encounter occurring on the catwalk.

"I don't care what the damn set book says; nothing has to move for this act!" Buquet argued angrily.

The man and the girl were standing across from each other on the dangling wooden planks of the catwalk, both glaring at the other. As Christine had walked into position, Kayla had casually mentioned that there was only one moving piece in the act. Buquet had very vulgarly disagreed, and here they now were, in a standoff.

"The whole purpose of the set book is to follow it!" Kayla countered, brandishing said item in her opponent's face. "I am supposed to pull down the cloud to cover the moon at the final _'you will think'_, and lift it back up as the song ends!"

"Nothing moves!" the furious stage hand repeated.

Kayla rolled her eyes. Jamie and Clemens were both in the wings, covering for the two workers who were helping the young child actors control the horses that the scene called for. Out of sight and out of earshot, so she was forced to deal with the issue on her own. "The cloud needs to be moved! You don't even have to do a damn thing; you can just sit on your ass for all I care!" she snapped, turning away.

"I'm in charge here!" Buquet growled.

Whipping back to face him, Kayla seethed, "You aren't in charge; your whiskey bottle is in charge, and I am really quite astounded that they haven't fired you yet." Ironically enough, Buquet took a swig out of the aforementioned flask.

Tilting her head to listen, Kayla heard Christine's melodious voice starting to sing the verse preceding the cloud cue. As she walked away from Buquet towards the rope control, Kayla's anger got the best of her and she called softly over her shoulder, "In addition, it's nice to know that you are the type of man who feels threatened by a nineteen year old girl."

WHAM!

Buquet, not missing the not-so-subtle insult in Kayla's word, charged her, knocking her down onto the hard wood of the walkway. Kayla's head slammed into the boards, and she vaguely wondered whether or not a full scale beating was much better that being womanized. Struggling to sit up, Kayla shrieked, "You twisted, fat, idiotic son of a…" The words that followed quickly morphed into a string of profanity, and within seconds, the catwalk was playing host to a full-scale brawl. On stage, the soprano sang on, blissfully unaware of the war occurring just above her. The orchestra's instruments drowned out the muffled thumps and wrathful taunts trickling from the walkway above. The only clue to the battle was a slight shaking of the hanging pieces.

* * *

Underneath the orchestra pit, in the tunnels of the opera house, the Phantom himself stood silently, rapt by the intoxicating spell that his beautiful student's voice wove in the theatre above. Christine's voice was flawless, as always, but there was something not quite right…

Cocking his head to one side, the Phantom listened closely. Soon he was rewarded by almost indistinguishable bangs, as if someone was fighting on the top levels… Snapping to attention, the Phantom immediately pinpointed Buquet as a source of the chaos. How a man could be so unprofessional was completely beyond his intellect. And there was also the matter of the young new trainee…

Walking quickly, the Phantom of the Opera vanished down a dark corridor, leaving nothing but shadows behind.

* * *

Back on the catwalk, the battle raged on. Kayla managed to wriggle out of Buquet's choke hold long enough to yank on the rope that released the cloud. It was a couple seconds later than had been required, but at least she had gotten it down, Kayla reflected, relishing her small victory. "Take that, you moronic douchebag!" Kayla hissed, thinking that perhaps douchebag was not a prevalent insult in 1870. She could not consider that for long, since Buquet tackled her again almost instantaneously.

As Christine's voice rose and fell in a stunning range of octaves, Kayla fought wildly against Buquet, leaving deep red claw marks in his meaty forearms. As the song reached the highest note, Kayla broke free and sprang forward. In one quick motion, she pulled down hard on the rope of the cloud, and knotted it back to its anchor position. The cloud rose off the moon, the aria ended, and the audience applauded thunderously.

Kayla drew herself up to her full five-foot-ten-inch height and spun to face Buquet. "You were saying?" she mocked in a syrupy voice.

"You bitch," Buquet snarled. His thick hand shot out and slapped her hard across the face. Such was the force behind the blow that Kayla stumbled backward and off the walkway. She managed to grab hold of one of the ropes and there she hung, blinking dazedly at Buquet's fleeing form. Desperately she tried to get a better grip on the rope, but she was so dizzy from the multiple hits she had received on the head that she only succeeded in reducing her hold to one hand. The knowledge that she was about to die flickered hazily through her brain. And this was not Inception, where she would wake up in reality. _Gotta get up_, her subconscious shrieked, but her arms would not respond. _Sorry Samantha_, she thought fleetingly.

Her hand slid completely off the bar.

* * *

**Author's Note: Thanks for reading, please review or PM me if you have any questions, comments, or constructive critiques! **

**Thanks! **

**Tierney**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Webber, Leroux, and other respective parties. I only own Kayla and my original characters. **

* * *

7

The Phantom crept softly across the balcony, staring in shock at the scene playing out before his eyes. Buquet had the new stage hand in a choke hold, and the girl's face was red from the effort she was exerting to escape. As he watched, the girl slipped out from under Buquet's arms and sharply tugged on the rope that released the cloud. "Take that, you moronic douche bag!" the girl crowed. Though she sounded quite pleased, her entire body was quivering with rage. Buquet grabbed her again. On the stage below, Christine began her octave climb.

The young woman was thrashing about like a wild animal. Her deep blue eyes blazed with fury, and her dark blonde locks were escaping from the tie she was using to hold it back. Her delicate-looking hands left painful looking scratches on Buquet's skin. Just as Christine's voice soared to the final high note, the girl tore away and pulled the rope back to its original position and quickly knotted it, skillful as if she had been working in a theatre her entire life. "You were saying?" the girl asked sarcastically.

Buquet's body tensed and his words carried to where the Phantom silently stood. "You bitch," the stage hand growled as he struck her across the face.

The girl stumbled back as Buquet's hand made contact. She flailed for balance on the edge of the catwalk, slipped, and fell. Catching herself on one of the ropes, the girl clung on desperately as Buquet bolted off the catwalk, unwilling to stick around and take responsibility for the murder, like the coward he was. And the death of the girl would once again be attributed to the Opera Ghost. In a split second, the Phantom decided that he would not allow this girl's blood to stain his hands. As soon as Buquet was out of sight, the dark shadow sprang down onto the catwalk.

One of the girl's hands slipped off, and she weakly reached up for the rope, but to no avail. Her glowing eyes flickered shut, and the final fingers slipped off.

He caught her by her shoulders before she dropped more than a couple of inches. She was tall, taller than Christine but still shorter than he was, and quite light and slender, so it took the Phantom almost no effort at all to lift her back up onto the catwalk. Lowering the girl down, the Phantom examined her face with the air of a man who had never seen a woman up close before. Tendrils of blonde hair were scattered over her forehead and across her cheeks. Her right cheek was emblazoned with the bright red print of Buquet's hand. He brushed a few silky locks behind her ear, cautiously, as if she were an animal that would bite if he moved too fast. When the applause of the audience doubled as the music for the next scene began, the girl stirred.

"Merde," she moaned, and the Phantom stifled a chuckle. Releasing her shoulders, the Phantom crouched down a short distance away. Blinking her long lashes and squinting, the girl struggled up, propping herself up on her elbows. Her confused blue eyes focused on him, and she emitted a small squeak of surprise.

The Phantom stood and retreated into the shadows, hoping that she had not seen his face. The girl continued to look in his direction, and the Phantom had the strangest feeling that she could see him through the gloom. "Merci, Monsieur Fantôme," she squeaked.

The Phantom of the Opera did not reply to her thanks, but leapt back to the balcony and disappeared into the darkness, a small smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

* * *

**Author's Note: A shorter chapter today, but the next one should be up soon, and we will be back to Kayla's point of view. Thank you to all those who have followed and favourtied, and thanks to the guest reviewers, Miss Mo and E-man-dy-S for their reviews, and apologies for the cliff-hanger of the previous chapter. Now, you all know the drill: please review or PM with any questions, comments, or critiques! Thank you to all the readers for the support!**

**Thanks! **

**Tierney **


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Webber, Leroux, and respective parties. I own Kayla and my original characters. **

* * *

8

As soon as Kayla saw the dark shape whisk away into the inky blackness of the higher balconies, she collapsed back down onto the wooden slats of the catwalk. Her face was throbbing from the bitchslap she had received, and she could feel her cheek starting to swell. Despite all this, she started to grin; the Phantom of the Opera had just saved her life. Though, upon further reflection, it may have just been to thwart Buquet. But then again, she was a girl, so perhaps the ghost's sense of chivalry had prevailed.

The music from the pit continued, and, checking the set book, Kayla realized that there were still a number of scenes to go. She very gingerly struggled to her feet, holding onto the coarse ropes for support. Her head spun and she swore quietly. She had not moved very far before Jamie popped up from the tightrope-esque ladder stretched across to the balconies.

"Where on earth is Buquet? The sets need to be moved for scene 4… sacre bleu, Abbots, are you alright?" he gasped as Kayla swayed and nearly fell over for the fifth time that evening.

The chestnut-haired boy swooped in and held her up. "What happened?" he demanded, gazing with wild eyes at the swiftly purpling bruise on Kayla's pale face.

"Buquet," Kayla choked out, clutching Jamie's elbow as another wave of dizziness overtook her. "But don't worry about me," she protested. "We've got an opera to finish."

Jamie's brown eyes flashed with barely supressed rage. "Clemens!" he called, leaning over the ropes of the catwalk.

"Don't tell them!" Kayla begged, clinging to the ropes herself as she tried to stand on her own.

Jamie gave her a searching look. "Very well," he consented finally. "If you at least tell me what happened. Clemens!" he barked again as the stage hand appeared on the opposite balcony. "Buquet's gone, and I'd bet my salary he's absolutely rat-arsed, so tell Henri that I'm helping Abbots up here. You'll have to find someone else to help you on the balconies. Got it?"

The red haired boy waved in confirmation and scuttled away. Jamie turned to Kayla and smiled knowingly. "I guess it's just you and me now, sweetheart," he teased, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

"Don't even think about it," Kayla responded weakly, lightly punching his shoulder. "Try anything and you'll end up on stage singing soprano with Christine and Carlotta." Jamie snorted, and the two of them got to work.

Between cues, Jamie forced her to explain the fight, and Kayla did so, leaving out the part about almost falling to her death and being rescued by a myth. When her story was over, Jamie shook his head in disgust. "Buquet's foul," he muttered darkly as he and Kayla tied down ropes. "I don't understand why they haven't gotten rid of him yet." Peering at the stage far below them, he added, "But I suppose if we're lucky, le fantôme will take care of him for us!"

Kayla did not bother to hide her smile at the accuracy of her new friend's prediction. Wincing, she held her temple as a headache pounded her skull.

Jamie looked at her worriedly. "It won't be long now," he encouraged.

He was right, of course. It did not feel like very long at all until the grand finale and curtain call. The applause was so loud that even the catwalk swung slightly from the vibrations. When Christine took a bow, the entire theatre was on its feet.

As soon as the red curtains cascaded back down across the stage, the crew began to tidy and put away the set pieces. Jamie helped Kayla down from the catwalk and let her borrow his scarf to cover her green and purple face. "We've got Il Muto tomorrow," he explained while he and Kayla carried a large wooden forest set to the storage area. "But no rehearsal since we've performed it so many times, for the cast, at least. We'll have to set up the stage of course, but it shouldn't be that difficult."

Kayla, of course, already knew that Il Muto would be the next performance, but she did not comment. Inside her mind, however, she silently cheered that by tomorrow night, she would have no more problems from Joseph Buquet.

Backstage was cramped and loud as the cast and crew celebrated a successful gala. Certain members of the ballet corps were passing around green glass bottles, filled with some kind of liquor. Jamie took a swig of the proffered flask before offering it to Kayla, who bestowed on him a look of such scathing disapproval that the boy immediately handed the bottle back to its owner and did not touch the booze again for the rest of the night.

After the sets had been carefully returned to their homes backstage, and Kayla had returned the set book to the stage office, Jamie dragged Kayla over to Madame Giry. When the older woman tersely asked the problem, Jamie pulled the scarf off Kayla, despite the girl's efforts to keep her face covered.

As soon as Madame Giry saw the extent of the damage, she pulled Kayla closer towards her and led her out of the wings. "See you in the morning, Abbots!" Jamie called. Kayla waved shortly, distracted by the fact that she had just seen Meg sneaking down into the chapelle.

Kayla followed Madame Giry past groups of revellers into a small office decorated with posters of past performances and pictures of the ballet corps. Shutting the door, Madame Giry gestured Kayla to a wooden chair. "What happened?" she asked gently.

So Kayla explained: from Buquet's argumentative behaviour, to the disagreement over the cloud and the brawl that followed, the near brush with death, and being saved in the nick of time by the Opera Ghost.

"That man does not deserve to even stand outside this opera house," Madame Giry spat, her French accent thick with anger. There was a knock on the door, and when Madame Giry opened it, there was Jamie, who was holding a jar of ice wrapped in a cloth. "Excellent thinking, Monsieur Blanchard," Madame Giry praised. The stage hand blushed, mumbled a goodbye, and fled. Madame Giry shook her head, chuckling, as she handed the jar to Kayla. The cold glass soothed Kayla's throbbing cheek as Madame Giry took a seat on the other side of the desk.

"Is it safe to talk about this in here?" Kayla questioned softly. "Couldn't _he_ be listening?"

Madame Giry shook her head. "No. He has known me for far too long and respects me far too much to spy on me," she scoffed. In retrospect, Kayla reflected, this should have been obvious. "He does not appear to bear any will towards you, or he would have allowed Buquet to kill you," the ballet mistress stated bluntly. "But since he made the effort to save you, we must assume that he may be keeping an eye on you from now on."

Kayla moved the jar on her cheek as she pondered this. "I would have thought that he would be too interested in Christine to remember me for long."

Glancing at Kayla thoughtfully, Madame Giry agreed. "You are correct; he is coaching Ms. Daäe very diligently, but of course she must not know this."

"She'll find out by tomorrow morning, if not sooner," Kayla countered tiredly. "He's going to introduce himself tonight, as it were."

Madame Giry rose and strode to the door. "I must see that Ms. Daäe is not harassed by anyone backstage," she mentioned as she turned the knob.

"And to give her the Angel's token?" Kayla added.

"Yes, that also," Madame Giry smiled, pulling the rose out from its hiding place in the folds of her black dress. "Will you be able to find your way back to the dormitory on your own?" When Kayla nodded, the older woman looked satisfied. With a kind, "Goodnight, ma chérie", the ballet mistress left the office.

Kayla sat quietly on the chair for a moment longer, savoring the peace and quiet. Taking the jar of melting ice with her, she limped out of the office, feeling exhausted. She slowly navigated the twisting hallways up to the dorms. The party was still in full swing; many dancers were still consuming more alcohol than would be deemed wise, and as a result were loud, rambunctious, shrill, and utterly drunk. Kayla squeezed her way to her cot, grabbed her bag out of her trunk, and hastily retreated.

Backstage was still crowded as well; coming back downstairs from the dorm was similar to moving through a mosh pit at a rock concert. "Mademoiselle Abbots!" a voice bellowed in her ear as she was yanked out of her original path of travel. Before she fully processed what had happened, her hand was being wrung by Firmin, who was screaming his congratulations in a vain attempt to be heard over the ruckus.

Forcefully spun in the other direction, Kayla was met with the beaming face of Andre, whose expression morphed into one of horror as he saw the bruise. "Dear God, what happened to your face?" he said in an aghast tone.

Kayla shrugged. "Fell," she lied dully.

Andre looked highly skeptical, while Firmin on the other hand missed the entire interaction. "Vicomte! Vicomte!" Firmin shouted, dragging Andre towards the young nobleman. Andre in turn dragged along Kayla.

The young man turned towards them, smiling. In the dim light, his hair now looked auburn, and it occurred to Kayla that Raoul's hair colour could very well end up being an enigma she would be unable to solve. "A splendid performance, monsieurs," Raoul complimented, flashing teeth so blindingly white that Kayla had to resist the urge to shield her eyes.

"It went off without a hitch, if I do say so myself," Firmin boasted.

"And the set arrangements were incredible," Andre interrupted, patting Kayla on the back.

"The cloud was a bit late…" Kayla apologized. "But everything else went fairly well, I think."

"Incredible," Andre repeated, ignoring her protests.

Raoul's warm hazel eyes met Kayla's cerulean ones with a look of carefully disguised curiosity as his gaze flickered over her injuries. "I look forward to seeing more of your work soon, mademoiselle," he assured her with a charming smile. "But for now, I have a prima donna to congratulate."

"Yes, we appear to have made quite the discovery with Ms. Daäe," Andre agreed gleefully.

"Perhaps we could present her to you, Vicomte," Firmin suggested.

Kayla and Raoul shook their heads in complete synchronization. "Thank you gentlemen, but this is one visit I should prefer to make unaccompanied," Raoul refused politely, not noticing Kayla's mimicry. What he did notice was the large bouquet of flowers in Andre's hands, which the young Vicomte confiscated as he headed to Christine's dressing room.

"They appear to have met before," Firmin shrugged carelessly as he flitted off and began to socialize with the rest of the cast. Andre turned to Kayla with a look of regret. "My apologies; those flowers were for you," he admitted.

Kayla grinned. "The fact that you even went to the trouble to get me flowers is a gift enough," she assured kindly.

Andre's eyes moved to her cheek again. "No one gets a bruise like that from a simple fall," he said. "And certainly not in the shape of a hand."

"Could we discuss this tomorrow, monsieur?" Kayla begged. "I'm exhausted, and I want to get an early start on work tomorrow."

"Of course, mademoiselle," Andre acquiesced warmly, patting her on the shoulder. "Your work tonight was excellent; you deserve your rest."

"Merci," Kayla acknowledged gratefully, dropping a quick half-curtsey before diving back into the crowd. She re-emerged by the flight of stairs that led up to the prima donna room. Continuing upward, she eventually came to the hall of doors. Pausing outside box five, she evaluated her options. She could go back to the dorm right now, and have to deal with the intoxicated ballerinas for the remainder of the evening, or she could hang out in the last place anyone would venture, with the risk of being punjabbed by a pissed off Phantom.

"But he's going to be wooing Christine tonight," she muttered to herself. He would most likely have his attention on his pupil rather than his precious box. Her mind made up, she cautiously turned the knob.

* * *

**Author's Note: So, I felt bad leaving it with such a short chapter, so here is the next a week earlier than I planned! You all know the drill; review or PM with questions, comments, or critiques, and follow and favourite only if you want to, no pressure. **

**Thanks! **

**Tierney **


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: I still do not own Phantom of the Opera, and only take credit for my original characters.**

* * *

9

She had half expected it to be locked, but the door swung open without protest. Creeping reverently into the box, Kayla shut the door behind her and sat down, keeping out of sight of the stage. She set her bag onto the seat next to her and began to go through it. One by one, she took an inventory of the only possessions she had in this world. Her wallet, with her licence, credit cards, and Canadian and British currency, all of which were useless here; her agenda, timetable, and university transcripts, also useless; a small bag of cosmetics, including her personal set of costume makeup brushes; her sketchbook, drawing pencils, and a small watercolour set with brushes; and her iPhone and hot pink ear buds.

Hoping against hope, Kayla unlocked her phone and dialed her parent's home number. It did not even ring, and "no signal" flashed yellow across the screen. Kayla exited the phone app, disappointment churning in her stomach as it occurred to her that she might never get home. Her music, however, still worked, so Kayla popped in her ear buds and scrolled through the albums until she found the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack. She chose Think of Me, as she hadn't had a chance to listen during the performance of Hannibal.

As Emmy Rossum's voice filled her ears, Kayla returned her belongings to her purse. Using a small compact-mirror, she began to dab concealer onto her cheek, wincing at the pressure she was forced to apply to her bruises. She continued to apply the makeup until she was certain that the purple splotches were no longer visible. When that task was finished, she tucked the cosmetics back into her purse and exchanged them for her sketchbook.

Flipping through the creamy pages calmed her, making her feel like she was at home, working on her art. Pasted on the first couple of pages were photos – the Opera and Theatre Calgary backstage crews, her family at one of Samantha's band concerts, Kayla and Samantha at the Royal Albert Hall for the stage production of the Phantom of the Opera… Kayla smiled at the memories.

Then there was the actual artwork. Figure drawings galore, courtesy of her university courses, the rough drafts of her Advanced Placement concentration work from high school along with photos of the finished products, sketches of the stage and sets of the Opera Calgary, and a number of different portraits. A few more turns of the pages revealed her more recent project – illustrations of the Opera Populaire.

The first of the series was a watercolour of a rose, tinted ruby red, with a shiny black ribbon and ornate engagement ring adorning the stem. The next was a pencil drawing of Christine in the dress from Act Three, followed by Carlotta in her over the top Hannibal costume. A watercolour of Christine and Raoul trailed behind, along with a careful, full-page sketch of Erik smiling at his model of Il Muto. Quick charcoal and ink drawings of Firmin, Andre, Madame Giry, and the ballet filled the pages after. Kayla flipped through many more drawings until she reached her two most recent: a group shot of Gerard Butler, Emmy Rossum, and Patrick Wilson in their costumes, standing with Andrew Lloyd Webber in the lair set, and a painstakingly detailed colour pencil drawing of Erik without his mask, his perfect mouth turned up in an amused sort of grin. Kayla traced the outline of the Phantom's cheek with a light finger, smiling at the happy feeling the image gave her. Turning at last to a blank page, Kayla pulled a pencil out of her bag and began to sketch her view of the stage. She blocked out her surroundings completely as she drew, her world consisting solely of the distant stage, the book in her lap, and the soundtrack playing softly in her ears.

She was finished her sketch and wishing for water so she could paint when the light of the chandelier suddenly went out. Taking this as her cue to leave, Kayla gathered her things to her chest and rose, hurrying out of box five as the lights on the stages mysteriously blew out.

"The Mirror" 's quiet introduction trickled gently into her ears as she raced down the hallway and bounded down the stairs the led past the stage and dressing rooms. Once down there, she would be able to cross the stage and get to the stairs that led to the dormitories.

"_Insolent boy, this slave of fashion_

_Basking in your glory! _

_Ignorant fool! This brave young suitor_

_Sharing in my triumph!"_

Gerard Butler's deep baritone flowed intoxicatingly through her mind, the music echoing in her ears.

"_Angel, I hear you; speak, I listen_

_Stay by my side, guide me!_

_Angel, my soul was weak, forgive me_

_Enter at last, Master!"_

One of the ear buds fell out of Kayla's ears, yet the music remained perfectly clear. Goodness gracious, that's loud, Kayla thought, turning on her iPhone to adjust the volume. But the volume was exactly where she had left it – on one of the lower settings. Hold on, thought Kayla, her eyes widening. Hold on. Taking a quick glance around her, she realized that she was right outside the prima donna room. With a feeling of euphoria bubbling up in her chest, she slipped both buds out of her ears.

"_Flattering child, you shall know me;_

_See why in shadow I hide!_

_Look at your face in the mirror; _

_I am there inside!" _

Kayla clapped her hand over her mouth to hold back a squeal of delight and bent over to press her ear to the keyhole of the door. She had not been sure whether her experience in this world would be a musical, but apparently the Phantom's obsession with dramatic operatic entrances still stood. Holding her breath, she listened to Christine's feet padding over the soft carpet.

"_Angel of Music, guide and guardian,_

_Grant me to your glory!_

_Angel of Music, hide no longer_

_Come to me, strange angel!"_

The Phantom's deep voice softened, coaxing in a tranquil yet hypnotic tone.

"_I am your Angel of Music! _

_Come to me, Angel of Music!"_

Kayla heard the abrupt sound of boots striding confidently down the hall. Stifling a shriek, she fled, leaping backwards down the stairs and hiding in a small alcove on the stage. Peering cautiously around the corner, she saw Raoul rattling the door handle of the prima donna room, looking quite infuriated. "Whose is that voice?" he muttered, and then shouted, "Who's in there?"

Kayla's mind filled in the words that she could no longer hear.

"_I am your Angel of Music, come to me, Angel of Music!"_

In her mind's eye, she could see Christine stepping through the mirror, with the Phantom waiting with an outstretched hand.

Poor Raoul, whom, unlike Kayla, had no idea whatsoever the events unfolding in the dressing room, kept shouting for Christine and shaking at the door handle. He paused for a moment to listen, but, apparently hearing nothing, swore loudly in French. With another expletive, the Vicomte turned on his heel and stalked back the way he had come, probably to search for the keys. Meanwhile, Kayla took a deep breath to calm her racing heart and stole back to the dorms.

The debauchery was far from over when Kayla opened the dormitory door. All the dancers were still awake, with the exception of Meg, who was absent. Gritting her teeth with annoyance, Kayla shoved her way through the shrieking mass of bodies and opened her trunk. Inside were some new clothes: a plain, navy blue, buttoned-up and collared work shirt, an elegant looking grey blouse, a long and puffy black skirt, and a white long sleeve nightgown. To her dismay, there was also a corset. Reaching into her bag to retrieve her phone, she caught fabric beneath her fingers; a black sports bra and a warm black cardigan. Kayla was certain those two items had not been there before, but she recognized them as hers. As she had already achieved the impossible by getting herself stuck in a movieverse, she decided not to question this stroke of luck.

Yanking the nightgown over her head and over her body like a tent, Kayla proceeded to shimmy out of her clothes, a fairly advanced feat that she had developed to avoid the usual awkwardness that accompanied changing in public. She exchanged her bra for the magical sports bra, pulled on the cardigan, and folded the garments she had removed neatly and returned them to her trunk, which she locked once more.

Many of the girls around her were also in their nightgowns, with the exception of a couple who were so heavily made up and flashily dressed that they would not have been out of place in an old fashioned "gentleman's club". Kayla rolled her eyes and clambered into bed, returning the headphones to her ears and holding her phone tightly in her hands. Screwing her eyes shut, she silently bemoaned the brightness of the gas lights that illuminated the dormitory. She attempted to drown out the chatter with her music, but the shrieks continued to creep in. Resolved to the sleepless night ahead, Kayla flipped to the Music of the Night and tried to lose herself in the intoxicating melody that Christine would likely be experiencing quite soon.

Kayla had completed the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack and had been listening to the Lord of the Rings for approximately forty-five minutes when she registered that another voice had jointed the high-pitched squeals of the ballerinas.

"I know everything about the Opera Ghost," the voice was boasting to the oohs and ahs of the dancers. "I've seen him with my own eyes."

Kayla's blue eyes snapped open and her mind was overrun with a questionable string of four letter words.

_Buquet. Buquet's in the dorm_, her mind gibbered senselessly. What the hell was Buquet doing in the dorm? _Find Giry_, logic commanded. _Find Giry_. Kayla rolled out from under the quilt and dropped to the floor. She shoved her phone into her bra for safekeeping, and began to crawl between the rows of beds.

"Giudicelli may believe that it's been three years of mishaps," Buquet was saying. "But this place has been haunted for years and years longer than that. He's got the managers wrapped around his finger, he does – has for ages. But he can't scare me."

Kayla stifled a snort. Buquet's childish words would be proven invalid by this time tomorrow. She kept scootching around the cots, praying that Buquet would not see her and attempt to finish what he had started earlier that evening. But no one spared Kayla a glance, all too enraptured by Buquet's speech to notice.

At last, Kayla reached the door. Scrambling to her feet, she opened it and slipped out. Once in the hallway, she bolted. Her bare feet made not a sound on the carpeted floor as she raced towards the place where Kayla was pretty sure she would find the ballet mistress. And sure enough, as she bounded up the preceding set of stairs, there was Madame Giry, pulling Meg by her ear out of the prima donna room. The older woman looked surprised at seeing Kayla's rapid approach. "Kayla, what on earth is the matter?"

Kayla skidded to a stopped in front of the mother and daughter. "Buquet's in the dorm," she panted. "And I seem to be the only one who has a problem with it."

Madame Giry's eyes narrowed. Lips pursed grimly, she strode towards the dorms, with Meg and Kayla following close behind. "I don't believe I introduced myself," Kayla ventured in a whisper. "I'm Kayla."

The golden haired dancer flashed a warm smile. "I'm Meg," she responded cheerily. "I'm looking forward to getting to know you."

"Likewise," Kayla grinned. She was now on first name basis with two of the main protagonists; life was good.

By this time, they had reached the dormitory again. Madame Giry pushed the door open firmly, and allowed Meg and Kayla to slide into the room past her. The two girls carefully maneuvered their way to their beds, though no one else in the room noticed their appearance.

"A yellow parchment is his skin," Buquet described, a malicious spark lighting up his wild eyes. "A great black hole serves as the nose that never grew. You must be always on your guard," he warned, pointing his finger out over his audience. "Or he will catch you, with his magical lasso." Removing a length of rope from around his waist, he looped a coil around in a dancer in a lacy black and blue dress and pulled her towards him. The girl in question let out a pleased yelp as Buquet pretended to snap at her neck. It was then that Madame Giry decided to step in, yanking the girl away from the stage hand and directing the disappointed girl back to bed.

"Those who speak of what they know," she began angrily, her voice carrying to every corner of the room. Much to Kayla's delight, Madame Giry was singing. "Learn too late that prudent silence is wise." Stalking over to Buquet, Madame Giry stared him down. "Joseph Buquet, hold your tongue!" In one sharp movement, she smacked Buquet cleanly across the face. The stage hand had the decency to look shocked. "Keep your hand at the level of your eyes!" she hissed, tightening the noose around his neck. Unfortunately for Kayla, Buquet managed to grab the rope and prevent himself from being strangled.

_Soon_, Kayla thought with a dark smirk as she climbed back into bed, watching in satisfaction as Madame Giry forced Buquet from the room.

"To sleep now," Madame Giry barked. The girls closest to the edge of the room began to blow out the candles that lined the walls. "I expect everyone to be well prepared for a rehearsal tomorrow, and I will be accepting no excuses." Without another word, Madame Giry left, shutting the door firmly behind her. The other dancers immediately burst into chatter, but Kayla returned her ear buds to her ears and shut her eyes, drifting off to sleep as she was serenaded by the lilting compositions of Howard Shore.

* * *

**Author's Note: Really I should be getting ready for Thanksgiving dinner and for all the relatives who shall descend upon my house this evening, but instead I have closeted myself away in my bedroom to post another chapter. Why, you may ask? To be honest, the only reason this chapter is up today instead of tomorrow is that I was highly motivated by all the reviews. So thank you to all those who reviewed, followed, and favourited, and thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read this far. Virtual cookies and pumpkin pie for you all! And for those of you in Canada, Happy Thanksgiving.**

**Thanks!**

**Tierney**

**Update: Apologies, but I was alerted to errors that existed in this chapter, and my little OCD perfectionist mind forced me to correct it. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, as I am sure is not a surprise to anyone. "Gone Gone Gone" belongs to Phillip Phillips. **

* * *

10

Kayla awoke early in the morning to a soft golden glow. Sleepily blinking her eyes open, she smiled at the warm sunlight trickling through the round glass window behind her. When she sat up and twisted around to look through the window, she could see the crimson and orange trees that grew tall on the streets of Paris. It was autumn here, she noted in surprise. Everyone was still sound asleep, oblivious to the rising sun, except for Christine, who would be waking up elsewhere. An underground kind of elsewhere.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon, as if ashamed to show its face. Kayla unlocked her trunk and began to get dressed, wearing her black pants, blue work shirt, sports bra, and boots. She slid her black vest over her shoulders as she folded up her nightgown and cardigan. Locking the trunk once more, she tiptoed out of the dorm with her phone and bag in tow.

The opera house was deserted and silent. Obviously it was too early for anyone to be up. She slowly made her way down onto the stage, and from there into the set manager's office. Fortunately for her, the door was unlocked. She entered the empty room and sat down at the desk, making a mental note to ask Madame Giry for a key. She pulled out her mirror and makeup, and quickly reapplied concealer until her bruises were once again invisible. She brushed out her blonde hair and whipped it back into a loose, low braid. Wiping off the previous day's eye makeup with a Kleenex, she lightly drew black eyeliner around her eye lids, deciding to forgo mascara for the time being. Finished with her one girly routine, she stood and began to search the shelves for the Il Muto set book. Once she found it, she left the office and began to read, familiarizing herself with the story line, characters, and cues, as well as the locations of the set pieces.

Il Muto was very obviously meant to be a parody, and thus was quite amusing. Kayla, who had never been able to figure out the full plot of the opera in question from simply watching the stage productions and movie of _Phantom_, found herself laughing hysterically at the antics described in the book. Once she was confident in her knowledge, she returned the book to the office and retested herself, walking from one piece to the next as she imagined each new movement and change of the set she would be directing later that night. Fortunately for her, there were not as many moving pieces as there had been in Hannibal.

It did not take very long for her to memorize all the placements for each of the five acts. Assured that she would not completely screw up the evening's performance, she navigated the empty labyrinth of the backstage to the main stage. In front of her, the theatre was dark, but on the stage, there was enough weak light drifting in from an unknown location that she could see quite clearly. Absently, she stroked the rose that hung around her neck, and was shocked to discover that the gold chain had no clasp whatsoever. "I guess it wants to stay on until my adventure is done," she muttered to herself.

She had been working, per say, for about an hour, yet the opera house was still silent. Struck by a sudden flash of what she felt was brilliance, Kayla tossed her bag off to the side and set her iPhone on a bench. Making sure the ear buds were safely stowed in her bag, she scrolled through her music, and, when she had found the song she wanted, turned up the volume as loud as she possibly could. With a happy smile, she pressed play.

* * *

Deep beneath the Opera House, there was no change in the darkness to indicate the transition from night to early morning. The Phantom's face wore an uncharacteristically cheerful grin as he stalked through the tunnels that led away from his lair. His angel still slept, and as it was approximately seven 'o'clock in the morning, she would dream for a few more hours yet. Nor would the rest of the Opera wake; dress rehearsals rarely began before half-past-nine, and most of the cast and crew took advantage of every moment of rest. For now, the Opera Populaire was his alone. After a full inspection of the Opera House, creeping along unseen and unheard, the Phantom decided to visit his box – it would be the first time he occupied it in a week of performances, as that ridiculous fop of a Vicomte and his guests had recently commandeered his sacred space. Upon reaching Box Five, however, the Phantom realized he was not alone.

There was a girl in his theatre. She was prancing with reckless abandon around the stage, attired in men's clothing – a coarse indigo shirt, a black vest and trousers, and tight leather boots. The long tail of her streaky blonde braid swished behind her as she spun, and the Phantom suddenly recognized her as the new stagehand, the girl Buquet had almost murdered. Most curiously of all, she was singing, harmonizing with a male voice and music, the source of which he could not identify.

"_When life leaves you high and dry  
I'll be at your door tonight  
If you need help, if you need help.  
I'll shut down the city lights,  
I'll lie, cheat, I'll beg and bribe  
To make you well, to make you well..._"

It took the Phantom a few moments to ascertain that this was most definitely not piece designed for an orchestra. In fact, after a couple of seconds he distinguished that a piano and possibly a cello were the only classical instruments in the melody.

"_When enemies are at your door  
I'll carry you away from more  
If you need help, if you need help.  
Your hope dangling by a string  
I'll share in your suffering  
To make you well, to make you well._"

It was blatantly obvious that the girl had little to no voice training, but she appeared to have the lyrics and tune known by heart. And the music, so unlike anything he had ever heard before, was strangely beautiful in the untrained voice of the girl and the sincere voice of the invisible man.

"_Give me reasons to believe  
That you would do the same for me.  
And I would do it for you, for you.  
Baby, I'm not moving on  
I love you long after you're gone.  
For you, for you.  
You will never sleep alone.  
I love you long after you're gone  
And long after you're gone, gone, gone_."

The rhythm of the music was so different from the dramatic operas he heard every day, and the Phantom was intrigued. And unlike the narrative told by an opera, the story in this song was not immediately apparent, but the Phantom felt it all the same. The girl continued to dance across the stage, moving gracefully yet sharply, with movements that made her appear mechanical. Tapping out the beat with the heel of her boot, she continued to sing.

"_When you fall like a statue  
I'm gonna be there to catch you  
Put you on your feet, you on your feet.  
And if your well is empty  
Not a thing will prevent me.  
Tell me what you need, what do you need?  
I surrender honestly.  
You've always done the same for me._

_So I would do it for you, for you._  
_Baby, I'm not moving on,_  
_I love you long after you're gone._  
_For you, for you._  
_You will never sleep alone._  
_I love you long after you're gone_  
_And long after you're gone, gone, gone_."

The quick tempo of the music suddenly slowed, and the voices of the man and the girl became more melodic, taking on a wistful quality.

"_You're my back bone.  
You're my cornerstone.  
You're my crutch when my legs stop moving.  
You're my head start.  
You're my rugged heart.  
You're the pulse that I've always needed.  
Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating.  
Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating.  
Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating.  
Like a drum my heart never stops beating..._"

The percussion pulsed enthusiastically, rising and picking up speed as the line repeated. The girl sang faster, the notes rising and falling with the changing tempo.

"_For you, for you.  
Baby, I'm not moving on.  
I love you long after you're gone.  
For you, for you.  
You will never sleep alone.  
I love you long after you're gone.  
For you, for you.  
Baby, I'm not moving on,  
I love you long after you're gone.  
For you, for you.  
You will never sleep alone.  
I love you long, long after you're gone.  
Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating.  
Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating.  
Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating.  
Like a drum my heart never stops beating for you_."

Her voice was happy, yet tinged with an undeniable sorrow. Her lips curled up into a shining grin and the music slowed once more. She and the male lead slowly blended their voices, all the instruments except a lone guitar falling silent.

"_And long after you're gone, gone, gone.  
I love you long after you're gone, gone, gone."_

The melody gently faded away, and the girl let out a peal of incredibly joyful laughter. "Phillip Phillips at the Opera Populaire," she commented quietly, though her words carried up to Box Five. "Never saw that one coming."

Her words barely registered with the Opera Ghost, who was still too caught up in the memory of the music to properly focus on anything else. The simple song had struck a chord with him; the lyrics exactly described the emotions he currently felt towards Christine. One solitary tear escaped its cage and trickled down his smooth, bare cheek. He angrily brushed it away. "Brava, brava, bravisima!" The gentle notes of appreciation floated out of his mouth before he could even consider stopping them, thrown out in the auditorium by his ventriloquism.

On stage, the girl jumped a foot into the air. "Jävla helvete!" she gasped. Her hand unconsciously flying up to clutch something hanging around her neck, she looked around wildly before her gaze landed on box five – on him. Just like last night, he could feel her scrutinizing blue eyes fixed on him, and he felt the ominous sensation that she knew exactly who was watching her.

"Den jävla ljud skrämde mig," she breathed with a shallow chuckle.

The Phantom did not comprehend the words, but he recognized the language as being Swedish – Christine's mother tongue. "Merci," the girl on stage acknowledged softly with a warm smile in his direction. The Phantom shrank back into the shadows.

"Abbots!" One of the stage rats ran onto the stage, peering around the wooden beams nervously. The girl took her gaze off of the Phantom's box and looked at the young man expectantly. "There's drama going on upstairs, Monsieur Andre wants to see you," the boy rushed, breathing heavily as if he had been running.

The girl cursed under her breath and snatched a small, rectangular object off a table on the stage. Lunging at her bag, she shoved the item inside. "'Kay, I'm coming, Jamie," she barked, swinging the bag over her shoulder, though she failed to notice the thick black book that remained dormant on the wooden floor. She followed the stage rat off the stage, their boots thumping on the wooden panels.

The Phantom waited until the echoes had subsided before he descended to the stage. He carefully picked up the book off the floor and retreated back into his tunnels. At least one good thing had come out of this unusual situation, he thought as he slipped into the dark. He now knew the name of the girl he had saved – Mademoiselle Abbots.

* * *

**Author's Note: Really, I should be reviewing my astronomy notes because my lecture starts in ten minutes, but no, my procrastinating little mind has decided that posting another chapter is the priority and shall be treated as such. So here it is. And just to clarify, just in case anyone is worried, Kayla is not a Christine replacement. She is not all that musically talented, and will not be joining the opera cast , performing in an opera onstage, or fighting it out with Christine. This is just a fluff chapter to kind of alert Erik that there's something off about Kayla, and more importantly, that magical little box she carries around. **

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed, and please review or PM me with any questions, comments, or critiques. **

**Thanks! **

**Tierney**


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: The ownership of Phantom of the Opera and all the fame and fortune that follows still do not belong to me, as that right belongs to Webber, Leroux, and other such stakeholders.**

* * *

11

"What time is it?" Kayla panted as she and Jamie raced down the backstage halls and into a section of the opera house she did not recognize.

"About eight," Jamie returned, turning up a set of stairs. "Not many people are awake just yet, but Andre wanted to meet with your privately about something."

Kayla's mouth went dry. Was her career over already? And this thought unearthed a whole host of worries – what if she did get fired? How on earth was she supposed to survive in 1854? How would she get home?

Jamie stopped abruptly in front of her, and Kayla collided into his back with a muffled grunt of pain. The boy turned and winked at her. "Not a chance, Jamie," Kayla warned with a nervous smile.

"You can't blame a man for trying," Jamie grinned back. Gesturing to the large wooden door that lay in front of them, he encouraged, "Go on; Monsieur Andre is expecting you." With a confident nod, he turned and strode off the way they had come. Kayla stared at the door for a moment.

_For heaven's sakes, get a grip; you're an adult, not a frightened school girl_, her snarky side pointed out. Steeling her resolve, Kayla rapped her knuckles on the dark wood.

The door flew open immediately. "Mademoiselle Abbots!" cried Andre, drawing her into the room. "Please, please, come in." Kayla took the seat offered to her, taking a quick glance around the office as she did so.

It was a large, spacious room with a wide window overlooking the silent morning streets of Paris. There were two heavy, luxurious desks next to each other on one side of the room, with gleaming wooden tops and gorgeously upholstered chairs accompanying them. The walls were lined with bookcases, filled with a mixture of novels, guides, photos of the casts, and mementos of plays and travels. Andre sat down on the other side of the desk, shuffling folders, and pushing fountain pens off to the side. "I apologize for the mess," he remarked as he began stacking some of the clutter into piles. "Running an opera house is much more labour intensive than Firmin or I suspected."

"Work of any kind is rarely organized," Kayla commented, trying to quell her stomach, which was trying to tie itself into knots.

Andre finished his impromptu organization and became still, staring at Kayla across the desk with a speculative look on his cheerful face. "Your face appears to have made quite the miraculous recovery," he said at last, gazing intently at the right side in particular.

Kayla brought her fingers self-consciously to her cheek, wincing as she unintentionally probed the carefully concealed bruises. "It's make-up," she explained shame-facedly.

Andre brought his fingertips to meet under his chin and cocked his head at her. "What happened?" he asked gently.

For the third time in the past ten hours, Kayla once again retold the confrontation on the catwalk, though she omitted the brush with death and the phantom. Andre looked quite concerned by the time her story was done.

"I'll go and collect my stuff, then," Kayla muttered helplessly, staring at her hands.

"What on earth do you mean, mademoiselle?" Andre asked, puzzled.

"You're sacking me, aren't you?" Kayla stated sadly, looking up into the manager's kind brown eyes. "I got into a fist fight with my superior on my first day."

"Mademoiselle!" Andre explained, looking at her, aghast. "I would not have hired you in the first place if I planned to have you leave after one performance! And as far as the fighting goes, Madame Giry and your friend Monsieur Jamie Blanchard have both vouched that it was entirely self defense on your part." Kayla simply stared at him with her mouth hanging open. Andre's eyes twinkled. "What I actually wanted to discuss with you," Andre continued, rising from his chair and moving to pace in front of the window, "was your promotion."

Kayla's blue eyes widened. "What?" she spluttered.

"You did exceedingly well at the performance last night, far too well for a junior stagehand," Andre said with a broad smile. "To tell you the truth, based on our discussions with Leverfe, we were already planning on ridding ourselves of Joseph Buquet. The fact that he had the nerve to attack you during a performance is enough to convince us. Buquet will be gone by tomorrow, and Firmin and I have decided that the position of chief stage manager will fall to you."

Kayla's mouth curled into a smile. "I can't believe it," she managed.

"If anyone deserves it, it is you," Andre assured her, grinning at the girl's joy as he sat back down.

Kayla's eyes drifted unbidden to the desk in front of her as she tried to hold back grateful tears. Crying ended up being pushed to bottom of her list of priorities. "What's that?"

Andre followed her gaze, and together the girl and the manager stared in disbelief at the white envelope gracing the formerly empty centre of the desk. Kayla's heart leapt into her throat as she saw the ornate, red skull that seated it. "Where in heaven's name did that come from?" Andre frowned.

"I don't know," Kayla whispered.

Andre gingerly picked up the envelope, and, scraping his nail under the edge of the wax, peeled back the morbid seal. As he flicked the envelope open, the assuming note slid out. The grey haired manager glared at the ink letters and read aloud, with Kayla surreptitiously mouthing the words she had memorized:

"_Dear Andre,_

_What a charming gala! Christine was, in a word, sublime. We were hardly bereft when Carlotta left. On that note, prepare for a disaster should you cast her when she's seasons past her prime._

_O.G._

_P.S. I commend your wisdom on the promotion of Ms. Abbots. She shall be in charge of the sets for tonight's performance, rather that the fool Buquet. Do not dare to ignore these instructions.__ "_

The post script was an unexpected addition, and Kayla was shocked that she of all people had garnered enough attention to be mentioned in a note. Andre's expression easily fell into the category of utter bewilderment. "Who on earth is O.G? And why would he care whether you were promoted?"

Kayla shrugged. "I don't know," she lied.

Andre slipped the note back into the envelope and stood, walking back around the desk to pull out Kayla's chair for her. "Whatever the case, Ms. Abbots, you will be in charge of the sets this evening," the manager declared as he took her arm and led her to the door, gripping the envelope in his other hand. "I will see you back to your wing, and then I must find Firmin."

And that's how Kayla found herself strolling arm in arm with Andre down the gorgeous marble halls of the Opera Populaire. As the pair walked towards the main lobby, Kayla saw Firmin bounding gleefully up the secondary set of stairs that led from the foyer. "To hell with Gluc and Handel; have a scandal and you're sure to have a hit!" Firmin sang happily as he bounced up to their level.

Andre dropped her arm and hastened towards his business partner as Kayla realized that they were about to sing _Notes_. Her inner fangirl was immediately seized by hysterics.

"This is damnable, when they all walk out! This is damnable!" Andre seethed, storming towards his friend, who grabbed him and steered him further down the hall.

"Andre, please don't shout!" Firmin admonished. "It's publicity, and the take is vast! Free publicity!"

"But we have no cast!"

Kayla hummed along quietly as Firmin pointed out the gigantic line for tickets that stretched from the doors of the theatre and some distance into the street outside. Then he noticed the note clutched in Andre's hand, and Kayla continued to hum as Andre read it aloud. She followed this by echoing Firmin's indignant tone as he read his own letter to Andre.

"_Dear Firmin,_

_Just a brief reminder: my salary has not been paid. Send it care of the ghost by return of post. PTO No one likes a debtor so it's better that my orders were obeyed." _

"Who would have the gall to send this?" they wondered. "Someone with a purer brain. These are both signed O.G, who the hell is he?"

"Opera Ghost?" Kayla supplied under her breath.

"Opera Ghost!" they shouted. "It's nothing short of shocking…"

"He is mocking our position!"

"In addition he wants money…"

"It's clear the man is clearly quite insane!"

"Where is she?" Raoul de Chagny burst into the foyer like the hounds of hell were on his tail. As the patron and managers musically argued about the source of the newest letter and the current location of Christine, Kayla amused herself by attempting to identify the colour of the Vicomte's hair. Today it was either hazel brown or deep gold; she could not decide which.

"Do not fear for Ms. Daäe. The Angel of Music has her under his wing. Make no attempt to see her again," Firmin read skeptically.

"If you didn't write it, who did?" Raoul demanded bluntly.

The wooden doors burst open and Carlotta, Piangi, and their silly prep crew came sweeping into the opera house with all the tact of a Canadian snowstorm. "Oh, here we go," Kayla sneered quietly with an exaggerated eye roll as Carlotta started to sing-song scream at Raoul and the mangers, who denied all claims in tones that perfectly complemented the diva's ire.

"Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered," Raoul sighed, warm hazel eyes flickering over the black scrawl of the newest note. "Christine Daäe will be singing on your behalf tonight. Prepare for a great misfortune should you attempt to take her place."

Carlotta's face was so red that it appeared that her head exploding was an inevitable possibility. After exchanging a meaningful look, Firmin and Andre hurriedly linked arms with the furious diva and sang, "Far too many notes for my taste, and most of them about Christine. All we've heard since we came is Ms. Daäe's name…"

"Ms. Daäe has returned."

Madame Giry and Meg appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Raoul, Carlotta, and the managers whipped around to face the newcomers. Kayla was the only one who was unsurprised.

"I hope no worse for wear, as far as we're concerned!" Firmin groaned indistinctly.

"Where is she now?" Raoul asked anxiously.

"I thought it best she was alone," Madame Giry explained.

"She needed rest," Meg supported softly, with her eyes fixated on the ground.

"May I see her?" Raoul requested eagerly, stepping forward.

Madame Giry held up a hand to stop his advance. "No monsieur, she will see no one," the ballet mistress stated firmly.

Carlotta and Piangi exchanged a sharp, distrustful glance, and screeched, "Will she sing? Will she sing?"

In response, Madame Giry held out the fourth white envelope of the day, and there was an immediate clamor for possession, from which Firmin emerged victorious. It was he who tore into the envelope and pulled out the latest piece of correspondence. Firmin began to recite.

Unexpectedly, Kayla's vision blurred, and her legs began shaking so badly that she was forced to support her weight on the smooth stair rails. When she shut her eyes, she could see the dark silhouette of the Phantom, sitting at his desk in front of his model of Il Muto. His deep, melodious voice echoed through her mind.

"_Gentlemen, I have now sent you a number of notes of the most amiable nature detailing how my theatre is to be run. You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance. Ms. Daäe has returned to you, and I am anxious her career should progress. In tonight's production of Il Muto, you shall therefore cast Carlotta as the page boy, and put Ms. Daäe in the role of Countess. The role that Ms. Daäe plays calls for charm and appeal; the role of the page boy is silent, which makes my casting, in a word, ideal. I shall watch the performance from my usual seat in Box Five, which __will__ be kept empty for me. Should my commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur_."

The part of Kayla's brain that was not being hijacked by some sort of flash back snarled, "_Not beyond __my__ imagination it ain't_." She continued to watch, immobile, as the Phantom poured hot crimson wax onto the envelope and stamped it with his seal, inspecting the red skull with an ominous smile. "_I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant – O.G."_

Kayla's eyes snapped open and the hallucination dissolved as the angry prima donna let out the most unholy shriek Kayla had ever heard. "It's all a ploy to help Christine!"

"This is insane," Firmin moaned.

"I know who sent this!" Carlotta shrilled, turning on Raoul. "The Vicomte – her lover!"

"Indeed?" Raoul scoffed sarcastically. "Can you believe it?"

"Signora!" Andre protested, hurrying down the stairs after the incensed diva, who appeared, at least to Kayla's ears, to be swearing in Italian.

"This is a joke!" Firmin hissed. "Signora!"

"This changes nothing!" Andre called. Carlotta continued towards the door. "You are our star!"

"And always will be!" Firmin added. "The man is mad!"

"We don't take orders!" Andre blustered.

Kayla resisted the urge to roll her eyes and shut her eyes again; her head was pounding. If this migraine was going to happen every time there was a change in perspective, according to the movie at least, this would be no fun at all.

"Miss Daäe will be playing the page boy – the silent role," Firmin announced loudly. "Carlotta will be playing the lead!"

Despite all the flattery, Carlotta continued to wax melodramatic and make for the exit. Kayla, who was in no mood to watch Andre and Firmin serenade-slash-kiss Carlotta's spoiled ass, stayed exactly where she was as Carlotta and her entourage whooshed away, with the pleading managers following close behind.

"Are you alright?"

Kayla lazily opened one eye to detect the source of the inquiry, and was shocked to discover Raoul looking down at her. "Something is trying to break out of my skull with a sledgehammer, and I'm getting really tired of Carlotta's bullshit, but besides that, I'm just dandy," she mumbled sarcastically. "Thank you for your concern, Vicomte."

"Please, call me Raoul," the man requested kindly, paying no mind to Kayla's attitude.

Kayla squinted up at Raoul and smiled. "Thanks, Raoul," she said. "I wish the other guys I know were a gentlemanly as you. No wonder Christine likes you so much."

To Kayla's great amusement, the young nobleman's cheeks took on a hint of crimson. He allowed Kayla to lean on his arm as she struggled to stand upright. As she stood swaying, Madame Giry and Meg approached.

"I need to speak with you, Kayla," Madame Giry stated, her voice laced with stress.

"Will Christine be all right? Is she safe?" Raoul cut in.

Madame Giry nodded tiredly. "You will no doubt see her at the performance, Vicomte," she agreed. "But for now, pray excuse us."

Raoul inclined his head in acceptance, and released Kayla, who took a few wobbly steps before Meg swooped in to support her. "See you later, Raoul," Kayla grinned drunkenly.

"Good afternoon, ladies," Raoul bowed before stalking away, muttering something about rejecting plans. Madame Giry led the way out of the lobby.

* * *

**Author's Note: Apologies for the long wait... its midterm season and I have a lot of work to do. Also I'm trying to get through multiple seasons of about five different shows simultaneously, which really isn't helping my productivity all that much. Nevertheless, I'll try my best to post once a week at least. Thanks for reading, and please review or PM with any questions, comments, or constructive critiques. **

**Thanks! **

**Tierney **


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, that right belongs to Webber, Leroux, and all the other geniuses. **

* * *

12

Madame Giry led the way to her office before sending Meg away to organize the ballet corps. She forced Kayla to sit down before revealing yet another white envelope – the only difference being that this one was addressed to Kayla herself. With trembling hands, Kayla opened the note.

"_Mademoiselle Abbots_," the note began crisply.

"_I would first like to congratulate you on your acceptance of employment at the Opera Populaire. In addition, I commend you on your level of professionalism and expertise during last evening's gala._

_I quite frankly approve of Monsieur Andre's decision to promote you to the head of backstage management. You are to work on the catwalk once again this evening, but, if you value your life, do not work near Joseph Buquet. Focus on your own duties on you will have nothing to fear. Should you ignore my warning, do not expect to escape unscathed._

_I look forward to watching your commendable work at tonight's performance, and will contact you soon, as I have a proposition that may require your assistance. I remain, mademoiselle, your faithful patron,_

_O.G._"

Kayla felt frozen, as if the message on the page before her was a curse that turned her to stone. _The Phantom of the Opera_ considered himself to be her patron? The one happy fact she could currently see was that he, as of yet, did not want her dead, or else he would not have warned her about the folly of shadowing Buquet. As if she would willingly stalk that man after he had almost murdered her.

Madame Giry's lips were pursed so tightly that her mouth looked like a perfectly straight line. "He is pleased with you," she stated quietly.

"But why?" Kayla wondered.

Madame Giry simply shrugged her thin shoulders.

Kayla flipped over the piece of stationary, revealing a postscript that had been hastily scrawled on the other side.

"I have borrowed something of yours, for safekeeping, as it was abandoned on the stage earlier this morning. It will be returned to you provided my orders are obeyed."

Blue eyes bulging, Kayla pounced at her bag and began to paw through the contents. iPhone and headphones, check; cosmetics, check; wallet, check; university stuff, check; art supplies, check. And she suddenly realized what was missing: her sketchbook. Kayla's mind immediately overflowed with curse words in every and any language she could think of. "Oh shit," however, was the only one she said aloud.

Madame Giry looked scandalized. "What's wrong?" she asked, sounding only a touch disapproving.

"He's got my sketchbook," Kayla hyperventilated, banging her head on the edge of the desk and cursing her stupidity.

Madame Giry, fortunately, understood the gravity of the situation instantly. "Are there any drawings that would alert him to who you are?"

Kayla groaned and slammed her forehead onto the desk again. "Yes," she grumbled. "There's a sketch of him without the mask."

Madame Giry inhaled sharply. "He is going to effing kill me," Kayla mumbled into the wood. "I am going to effing die here."

"I am afraid I do not know what he may do," Madame Giry sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "All I can tell you is to be careful."

"Caution means nothing if he wants me dead," Kayla moaned.

"What will happen to you?" Madame Giry inquired timidly. "If you die here?"

Kayla raised her head and stared at the older woman thoughtfully. "I don't know," Kayla murmured sadly. "Maybe I'll wake up at home. Maybe I'll be dead at home, I don't know. This isn't a normal occurrence with a predictable ending."

The woman's face was grim. "I will not allow misfortune to befall you if I can help it," she declared.

Kayla smiled weakly. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I don't think that there's much you can do against _him_."

"I saved his life," the ballet mistress insisted. "He will listen to me."

"I sure as hell hope so," Kayla muttered.

"Come," Madame Giry stated resignedly. "I need to alert Christine to her new role, and there are other preparations to attend to."

The two women walked to the backstage silently as mice. Kayla's footsteps lagged, as if her feet had decided that they were not in the mood to go anywhere. Madame Giry seemed no less reluctant as they moved through the wings. Her lined face was melancholy as she gently removed the page boy costume from a mannequin. "He has heard… the angel sees; the angel knows," she murmured distractedly, draping the bundle of pastel-coloured fabric over her arm.

After that, the two separated – Madame Giry to help Christine into her costume, and Kayla off to help set up the stage. Most of the pieces were already prepped for movement between acts, and the arrangement of the bedroom scene for the first act, though labour intensive, did not take very much time to complete. When her fellow stagehands discovered that Kayla was experienced in costuming, Jamie and Clemens dragged her to the large cast and dancers' dressing room to assist the actors and ballerinas with their makeup and outfits.

Thus, when the audience began to congregate in the lobby about an hour before seating was scheduled to begin, Kayla found herself painting the face of yet another actor, covering the cheeks and forehead with white using broad, smooth strokes. It was about six 'o'clock in the evening now, and Kayla had not taken a break since her sojourn to the stage that morning. Her body had recently come to the realization that it had not ingested food since the afternoon of her inter-universe jump over a day previously, and her stomach had decided that the most logical course of action was to eat itself.

Pulling out a different pot, Kayla brushed shimmery blue powder over the man's brows and cheekbones, accentuating his features so they would be easily seen on stage. She added a coat of baby-blue to his lips, and a navy blotch to his cheek. Surreptitiously pulling up a picture of the "fops" on her phone for reference, Kayla inspected her work. "I think you're done," she ventured, holding up a mirror. The actor examined his face in the reflective glass, turning his head from side to side to check every detail.

"Perfect!" the man exclaimed, sounding slightly surprised. "I've never had my makeup look this good!"

"She's quite talented, isn't she?" smirked a woman in a flamboyant lavender dress with matching makeup. Laughing, she smacked the man in the back of the head, nodding respectfully at Kayla. "She painted me and Francois as well," the actress added, gesturing at a man in lemon yellow.

"Did she really?" the actor in blue asked delightedly. He turned to Kayla with new-found admiration. "Thank you, mademoiselle, for your expert job," he stated politely. "I'm Antoine, by the way."

"No problem," Kayla acknowledged, feeling bashful. "Nice to meet you."

Setting his tall white wig atop his head, Antoine strolled away, perfectly balanced on the kitten heels his costume required. Kayla grinned in amusement, but the expression quickly faded as a double wave of dizziness and nausea overtook her.

"Kayla?" The newest greeting came from Meg, who was already made-up and costumed for her role. "Are you feeling any better?"

Kayla looked up at the delicate ballerina with a tired smile. "I'm pretty good, considering that I've been working for six hours, and haven't eaten for possibly a day and a half," she remarked cheerfully.

Meg's mouth dropped open. "Why didn't you say anything earlier?" she spluttered. Kayla merely shrugged. "I'll show you where the kitchen and dining hall are after the performance, as there's not enough time right now, but I'll be right back with something to tide you over until then," Meg promised quickly before vanishing into the busy crowd.

A group of young ballerinas approached Kayla timidly, and shyly requested help with their cosmetics. Remembering how in awe _she_ had been of older girls when she was younger, Kayla happily obliged, drawing them into a comfortable conversation as she worked her way through the ranks. Thankfully, the girls knew exactly what their make-up was supposed to look like, and became freer with their suggestions and descriptions as they warmed to her presence.

Thus, when Meg finally returned, Kayla had at least fifteen adolescent girls gathered in a semi-circle around her, watching her finish up the final dancer's makeup and listening attentively to the story Kayla was telling. Kayla powdered the girl's cheeks with blush as she continued her tale.

"The girl reached out to touch the dying rose when… BANG!" she cried, and the girls squealed in fright. "The lid was slammed back down. '_Why are you here?_' the Beast snarled angrily. _'I ordered you to stay out of the West Wing!_' The frightened girl tried to apologize, but the Beast roared loudly and leapt at her with claws outstretched. She fled, racing out of the castle and into the storm that howled with icy rage outside."

Kayla had originally been at a loss as to what to talk about, but when the topic had rolled around to her background, the girls had begged to hear some of the stories she had grown up with in Canada. Though the irony of her choice did not escape her, Kayla decided on Beauty and the Beast – the lighthearted animated retelling, of course.

"While the Beast grieved the loss of a chance to break the curse, Belle galloped with Philippe out of the foreboding gates, not hearing the cries of the hungry wolves that flew on the whistling winter winds," Kayla described dramatically as her audience stood rapt with wonder.

Meg held out an apple and a warm sourdough bun to Kayla as the storyteller set down the makeup brushes. The young dancer opposite Kayla snatched up a mirror and peered at her reflection with a contented little grin.

"All dancers need to be ready to warm up in five minutes!" Madame Giry barked as she stuck her head into the room. There was an immediate flurry of activity as all the ballerinas made for the door. The younger dancers who were standing around Kayla followed the order with obvious reluctance, slowly gathering up their props and adjusting their costumes.

"Will you tell us the rest of the story later?" one requested hopefully.

"Of course," Kayla responded warmly. With happy squeaks of thanks, and cheerful "good lucks", her new disciples scurried after their older counterparts.

Kayla snatched the apple and bun out of Meg's hands and began eating ravenously. "Thank you Meg; you wonderful lifesaver you," she moaned around a mouthful of fruit.

"The little girls seem to like you," Meg commented.

Kayla shrugged, finished the apple, and tore into the bun. "I have sisters and cousins, I know how it is," she explained thickly, cramming pieces of bread into her mouth. "Attention from an older girl can be a pretty big deal."

Meg tilted her head curiously. "How old are you?" she asked abruptly. "If you don't mind me asking."

"Twenty," Kayla replied automatically. "I'll be twenty-one in January."

Startled, Meg blurted out, "Why aren't you married yet?"

The bread decided to take a detour down her windpipe. Kayla managed to save herself from death by choking before she laughed out loud. "Married?" she spluttered. "That's hilarious… if there's one thing you should know about me, darling – boys are not interested in me."

"The Vicomte seems to be," Meg objected flatly.

"Not at all," Kayla snickered, amused by the ridiculousness of the idea. "Trust me, he's going for Christine," she stated. "They'll be engaged before New Year's, I bet you."

"What are the stakes?" Meg asked slyly.

"Oh, it's a legit bet now? I don't have any money," Kayla laughed.

"You will as soon as you get your first wages," Meg pointed out. "How about two francs?"

"Done," Kayla agreed. They shook on it.

Madame Giry reappeared in the doorway. "Meg, you should be warming up now," she ordered. Meg started guiltily, and hurried out into the backstage. The ballet mistress walked closer as Kayla stood and picked up her bag. "Kayla, the rest of the crew is gathering behind the wings," she explained softly. "You should join them."

Kayla nodded and slung her bag securely across her shoulders, adjusting the work belt Madame Giry handed to her across her hips. "Thank you, Madame Giry," Kayla articulated slowly. "For everything."

The older woman looked at her sharply. "You will survive this evening," she declared icily, in response to Kayla's silent worry. "You are a young woman. He will not harm you."

"But I know his secrets," Kayla protested wearily. "I know what he's planning."

Madame Giry's gaze softened in confusion. "What is he planning?"

"Buquet's going to die," Kayla revealed in a rush.

The ballet mistress's features tightened determinedly. "So be it," she said. "You, Kayla, will be safe – he is, if anything, a chivalrous gentleman."

"I hope you're right."

Madame Giry gave Kayla's arm a reassuring squeeze before hurrying off, probably to collect Christine.

Kayla took a deep, calming breath, dropped her bag off in her soon-to-be-office, and went to join the crew.

* * *

**Author's Note: Thank you everyone for reading! Feel free to review and PM if you have any questions, comments, or critiques.  
**

**Thanks!**

**Tierney**


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: So, sorry for the delay in posting, the week kind of got away from me, what with midterms and work and such... but here it is now! I still do not own Phantom of the Opera, that right belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber, Gaston Leroux, and others. **

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13

Joseph Buquet was standing in the circle of stagehands when Kayla arrived, and the man looked visibly startled to see that she was unharmed. "Yes, I am alive, asshole," Kayla barked by way of greeting before turning to the men she would be officially managing.

"Clemens and Jean, if you could please be in charge of the level two balcony, left side; Henri and Andre are on the right. Francis with Baptiste and Germaine with Rene are taking the first balcony, left and right respectively. The left wings are the jurisdiction of Dennis, Leo, and Edward, the other side gets Bernard, Marius, and Gerald. The rest of you are on duty backstage. Jamie, you're with me on the catwalk." The instructions fell from her lips with ease, and there was not a single complaint – unless, of course, they were counting Buquet.

"Who put you in charge?" the coarse man growled.

"Our new managers," Kayla spat. "They seemed to like my professional behaviour. Yours, on the other hand, left much to be desired."

"Oh, really?" Buquet sneered.

"You'll be eating your words after they fire your ass," Kayla snarled.

"Oh, I see," Buquet chortled. "You're the managers' whore."

Kayla's vision tinted crimson, and her mouth opened before she could stop herself. "Oh ho! Says the man who watches the dancers _changing_, you lecherous old _sot_!" she shrieked. "I got this job because I keep high standards of responsibility, not because I let my bosses get me into bed. Unlike you, who gets to stick around, probably because you and a couple of the dancers have a creepy little arrangement going on, you slut."

In that section of the backstage, you could have heard a pin drop. After a moment, Jamie let out a long, drawn-out whistle of approval. Clemens was grinning in undisguised delight, some of the older men were visibly holding back laughter, and the other teenagers burst into applause. Buquet, on the other hand, was growing red with fury.

Kayla drew her fingertips down her cheek, causing streaks of concealer to disappear. The rest of the crew gaped when they saw the sickly purple bruises. "Next time, leave less evidence when you fail to murder someone," Kayla hissed. "Tonight is your last night at the Opera Populaire, one way or another, and if you interfere with this performance or threaten me and anyone else in any way, I will kill you myself."

Buquet's face was a priceless combination of anger and fear, and he was not the only one who looked furious. Jamie, who was already privy to the revelation, was bristling. Her teenage fanclub looked ready to rip Buquet to shreds, and the older ones were radiating protective, fatherly rage.

"I have an idea!" Kayla exclaimed poisonously. "Germaine and Rene, would you take Buquet up to level one, and keep an eye on him, please? That way you can notify me if there are any… unpleasantries."

Germaine – a broad, gentle man who reminded Kayla of her father – calmly replied, "Yes, of course, Abbots."

Kayla smiled gratefully at him before turning to the others. "Is everyone clear on their positions?" she demanded.

"Yes, Abbots," the crew chorused.

"Alright, get to it, then; before Carlotta can try to change anything," she instructed in mock-seriousness, and they all chuckled.

Suddenly, a series of high-pitched notes that vaguely reminded Kayla of a teakettle echoed from a distant section of the backstage. Jamie looked at Kayla in mock horror. "Speak of the devil…" he remarked casually.

All intent on avoiding an encounter with the insufferable soprano, the group hastily dispersed to their positions. Germaine and Rene all but dragged Buquet towards the balcony stairs, while Jamie and Kayla scurried up a second set of stairs to the catwalks. Therefore, Kayla had a first class aerial view of Firmin and Andre, struggling to carry the large, bulky litter on which Carlotta was comfortably reclining.

Carlotta's extravagantly puffy, lacy pink dress had to be lowered onto her by a set of makeshift pulleys that extended out from one of the balconies. In some miraculous feat of engineering, the high, bejeweled whit wig stood straight and tall on her slender neck without wobbling. Carlotta's olive skin was completely covered with white, and layered with blush on her cheeks. As the managers continued to shower Carlotta with lyrical compliments, Christine, Madame Giry, and Meg emerged from the wings with the air of people on the way to a funeral. Christine's brown eyes were distant and glazed over with despair.

The entire cast was gathered on the stage as everyone fussed over Carlotta's costume. Then, as if prompted by some invisible force, everyone on stage began to sing. "Light up the stage with that age-old rapport! Sing prima donna…" They paused to take one synchronized breath. "Ooooonce mooooore!"

As the song ended, Kayla called down, "Nice first attempt, y'all." Jamie snickered next to her. "_Attempt_ being the operative word in this scenario."

Carlotta whipped around to pinpoint the source of the sass, and it took her a couple of seconds to think to look up. When she finally did, the diva was incensed. "How dare you!" she shrieked.

"Trust me, darling, I'll dare as often as I like," Kayla replied sweetly. "I'd invite you to come up here and remedy the situation, but I doubt your dress would fit." Jamie clapping his hand over his mouth, bending over and hanging onto one of the ropes, shaking with silent laughter.

"You have no right…" Carlotta shrilled, but Jamie immediately cut her off.

"I think the rest of us would argue that she has every right," the young man defended icily, leaning over the rails to glare at the prima donna. "Do your own job, and we'll do ours."

From their hiding places in the wings, the other stagehands burst into applause.

"This silly girl has no place in this opera house!" Carlotta screamed, her Italian accent becoming more pronounced in her rage.

Andre drew himself up to his full, though unimpressive, height and stated coldly, "You may be the prima donna, Signora, but allow me to make the employment decisions, if you please."

Kayla grinned cheekily and waved sarcastically before stepping out of range of the diva's death stare.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please prepare yourselves, as we will be starting the performance in twenty minutes," Firmin instructed loudly, and dragged Andre away to the hallway leading to the managers' office.

There was a moment of confused silence, and then the cast came alive. Piangi and his incredibly short sidekick removed themselves to their position outside of the "door". The three "fops" whose makeup Kayla had applied earlier – Antoine in blue, Francois in yellow, and Annette in lavender – set up behind the red velvet curtain. Carlotta primly sat on the bed that dominated centre stage, while Meg shoved Christine, causing the young singer to land on the mattress on all fours, like a cat. Christine looked shocked for a moment, but started to laugh quietly. When Carlotta finally managed to shush the dancer and the young soprano's hysterical giggles, Christine appeared to be much calmer and brighter. Once Christine was properly seated next to Carlotta, Meg drew the bed curtains across, blocking the two leads for the audience's view, and whisked away to her own position in the wings.

Kayla could hear the murmurs of the spectators on the other side of the curtain. Surveying the wings and balconies, she confirmed that her crew members were in their places. A questioning glance at Germaine was returned by a signal that Buquet was still being monitored. A second glance at the wings was rewarded with a firm but reassuring nod from Madame Giry.

All too soon, Kayla caught the familiar notes of the orchestra's warm-up. "_Let the audience in, let my opera begin,_" she muttered to herself as with a swell in the melody, the curtains flew aside, and the three fops pranced forward, with Meg springing out close behind.

"They say a certain youth has set my lady's heart aflame!" Annette trilled.

"His lordship would surely die of shock!"

"His lordship is a laughing stock!"

Together, the three sang, "If he suspect her, God protect her! Shame! Shame! Shame!"

"This faithless lady's bound for Hades; shame, shame, shame!"

With a comical wag of her finger, Meg pulled back the bed curtains. The movement revealed Christine and Carlotta, who, to the eyes of the audience, appeared to be making-out behind Carlotta's lacy rose fan. The viewers, with whom this opera seemed to be a favourite, burst into applause as Carlotta lowered the fan and Christine clapped her hand to her mouth in an exaggerated motion of shock.

Kayla peered over at Box Five. Unsurprised to see it occupied, she found herself still annoyed that the managers were practically begging for disaster. "Oh Raoul, you utter asshat," Kayla sighed exasperatedly.

Jamie cast a curious glance in her direction. "What's bothering you, Abbots?" he inquired.

"The Vicomte is sitting in the Phantom's box," she explained tersely, tilting her head towards Box Five.

"Do you believe the stories, then?" Jamie asked cautiously.

"We have nothing if not belief," Kayla quoted, still glaring at the oblivious nobleman. "Besides, I have my suspicions, so if I tell you to do something, just do it, understood?"

Jamie nodded, convinced by the serious look Kayla could feel plastered across her face.

"Serefimo, you're disguise is perfect!" Carlotta warbled. A member of the orchestra rapped on a wooden box, perfectly imitating the sound of a knock. "Who can this be?"

Piangi waltzed onto the stage through the "door", looking as proud as a peacock. "Gentle wife, admit your loving husband," he proclaimed, pretending to grope Meg, who in turn acted shocked. The audience applauded again, and Kayla resisted the urge to slam her head into something. "My love – I am called to England on affairs of State, and must leave you with your new maid. Though I'd 'appily take the maid with me," Piangi added with a self-satisfied smirk.

"The old fool is leaving!" Carlotta stage-whispered, earning another round of laughter. The singing exchange continued, after which Piangi and his sidekick took their leave. Carlotta peered furtively after him before crying, "Serefimo – away with this pretense!"

Christine strode confidently to the front of the stage, tearing off her skirt and casting it aside. Annette, Francois, and Antoine let out dramatic gasps. "You cannot speak, but kiss me in my husband's absence," Carlotta sang, holding up her fan as she and Christine leaned behind it once again. Piangi stuck his head back through the doorway and shook his fist at the display.

Hooking their arms around each other's waists, Christine and Carlotta floated in a circle as Carlotta continued, "Poor fool, he makes me laugh, haha, haha! Time I tried to get a better, better half! Poor fool, he doesn't know! Hoho, hoho! If he knew the truth, he'd never, ever go!"

Suddenly, a voice echoed through the theatre. "Did I not instruct," the invisible Phantom boomed.

The audience let out gasps of surprise, and the cast on stage all wore identical masks of horror. Jamie's brown eyes were bulging. Striking a pose, Kayla laughed as she mouth along to the next words, gesturing dramatically.

"…that Box Five was to be kept _empty_?"

"No really, bright eyes? What alerted you?" Kayla wondered sarcastically. Jamie, overhearing, stifled a chuckle, looking significantly less freaked out than he had been a few seconds before.

"It's him," Christine breathed, looking around wildly.

Snapping her bright pink fan shut, Carlotta brandished said prop at Christine and snarled, "Your part is silent, little toad!" Trying to laugh off the interruption, Carlotta swept off the wings to get a hit of her throat spray. It was the worst character break Kayla had ever seen on stage.

No one else could hear the ghostly words that followed, but to Kayla, Erik's voice was as clear as if he was standing right next to her. "A toad, madame?" the Phantom mused. "Perhaps it is _you_, who are the toad."

Carlotta returned to her position onstage, issuing playful instructions to Maestro Reyer. She began to sing as if nothing had transpired. "Serefimo, away with this pretense; you cannot speak, but kiss me in my husband's abs…" As she made to finish the word, a ghastly croak issued from her throat. Rightly so, Carlotta and the rest of the cast were horrified, though the audience, thinking it was some kind of joke, roared with merriment.

"Abbots!" The desperate plea reached Kayla's ears from the first balcony. Twisting around to answer, Kayla saw Germaine leaning over the railing. "Buquet ran off," he hissed worriedly. "What do we do?"

Kayla felt the crushing weight of leadership sinking on her shoulders. Smacking her forehead, she formulated her plan. "I want the entire crew down at the muster point, behind the stage right wings. No one is to be on the balconies or the catwalk, understood?" she barked.

"What about Buquet?" Germaine asked urgently.

"If a grown man can't take care of himself, nothing we can do will protect him," Kayla declared. "Natural selection, if you will. Now forget Buquet and get downstairs, now!"

"Yes, Abbots!" Germaine affirmed, and whisked away to spread the word and collect the other men on the balconies.

"Jamie, go downstairs and gather up the lower level crew," Kayla ordered sharply, and the young man obeyed immediately.

Recovering from the shock, Carlotta made a second attempt. "Oh poor fool he makes me laugh, aha, aha! Aha, ACK!"

Carlotta screamed, sounding both terrified and mortified, and ran off the stage as quickly as her high heels would allow. The curtain hastily swung shut, and Antoine, who was caught in front of it, took several moments to find the opening and slip back out of sight. Firmin and Andre burst onto the stage, wide-eyed and frazzled.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Firmin called, his mustache bristling as he visibly held back panic. "We apologize," he continued after a pause. "The performance will continue…"

Maestro Reyer threw up his hands in exasperation, exhibiting the 1800's equivalent of a "WTF" face. The audience gaped.

"…in ten minutes time, when the role of the Countess shall be played by Ms. Daäe!" Firmin concluded as Andre dragged Christine out from behind the curtain to display to audience.

Madame Giry yanked Christine back off stage, and Kayla watched them hurry back to the dressing room.

"Thank you for your patience," Andre articulated carefully. "Meanwhile, we would like to present the ballet from Act Three of tonight's opera…"

"What?" Reyer cried.

"The ballet, maestro? The ballet!" Andre blustered. The managers bowed and whisked off stage again.

As Antoine was caught in front of the curtain yet again, performing a little dance of his own to a delighted audience, Kayla raced down the ladder to the balcony and down the stairs to the muster point. "You heard the managers, we're trying this again," Kayla grimaced as soon as she was in earshot of the company. "Does anybody know what scene they want us to start from?"

"Scene two," returned Clemens promptly. "That's what Madame Giry told me."

Kayla's brain automatically pulled up the pages of the set book, enabling her to visualize the new set quite clearly. "Alright, scene two is in the garden, so we need the bed to be removed, plus the bedroom walls away, and the forest backdrop needs to come down," Kayla flung out the set pieces as they occurred to her. "I want the six strongest moving the bed, the rest deal with the walls; let's move!"

The set crew sprang into action, ducking and diving around the young ballerinas who were beginning their routine onstage. Kayla hurried to help Jamie pull back one of the walls, scuffing her boots against the wooden floor as she heaved at the unyielding piece. As the pair finally dragged the wall back to its home in the wings, Clemens sprinted up. "Kayla… I mean, Abbots," he spluttered, blushing. "We need to bring down the backdrop, and since the catwalk is your area of expertise, we figured you'd be best for the job," he rushed.

"On it," Kayla nodded resolutely, adjusting her work belt around her hips before jogging up the stairs again.

* * *

**Author's Note: There we are! Again, sorry for the delay. Also, in Chapter 11 I was alerted to the fact that I messed up on the dates; I wrote 1854 in the first paragraph when it should be 1870, and I was too lazy to change it. Just a heads up in case anyone was confused. :)**

**Please review or PM with any questions, constructive criticism, or other comments. **

**Thanks! **

**Tierney **


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, as it belongs to Webber, Leroux, and others. **

* * *

14

Even though her official promotion was still pending, Kayla felt a surge of pride as she saw that the set had been completely changed over to that of scene two, and that her crew was nowhere in sight as the ballet continued on the stage. Climbing hand over hand up the ladder, Kayla crawled up onto the catwalk. And there was Joseph Buquet, standing in the middle of the catwalk as if under a spell.

"What the hell are you doing?" Kayla asked warily, pulling the rope to release the backdrop. Below, she could see Jamie and Rene securing the fallen piece to the stage floor.

"He's here," Buquet said in a monotone, looking around in a daze.

Kayla frowned. "Dude - he's the Phantom. He's freaking everywhere."

It did not come as a shock when Buquet immediately turned on her. "You're in league with him!" he snarled.

Kayla held her hands up in mock surrender. "Well, I guess you found me out," she stated sarcastically. "No, I'm not the Phantom's sidekick, you warthog-faced buffoon."

Buquet took another menacing step towards her. "Then how come you know so much about him?" he sneered.

Kayla backed away as cautiously as if she was facing a rabid dog. "Stay away from me, Buquet," she warned, moving towards the makeshift bridge of ropes that connected the first level of the catwalk to the second level.

Buquet opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden whisk of a black cape was more than enough to distract him. As he turned to peer into the darkness, Kayla flew up the coarse ropes to the higher level. The overweight stagehand twisted back and forth, his hands balled into fists. Kayla clung to the support ropes and watched silently. In the time it took her to blink, the Phantom appeared, looming over Buquet like the Grim Reaper. Buquet turned, saw the masked face inches from his own, gave a terrified, girly gasp, and bolted. The Phantom disappeared into the gloom in a move that reminded Kayla of apparition.

The look on Buquet's face was so comically scared that Kayla almost burst into a fit of silent giggles. Unfortunately, her amusement had to be put on hold, as Buquet fled to the level on which she had sought refuge. The Phantom's warning rang in her ears: "_If you value your life, do not work near Joseph Buquet__._" And so she ran.

If she was not feeling so nervous, it would have been incredibly entertaining to spectate the game of cat-and-mouse the Phantom played with Buquet. When the Phantom psyched out the former-stage manager by mimicking his attempts to get past, Kayla actually laughed out loud. But then the pattern changed.

The Phantom leapt up a rope with the agility of a gymnast. It was clear that this was becoming more of a hunt than a game. Kayla knew exactly what was coming, but the reality of the cost was only just sinking in. The graceful movements of the shadowed Ghost were sinister, predatory – the dance of murder. Kayla was paralyzed, though her mind was screaming at her to run, to get down to the stage, where there were people to protect her. As the lighthearted music of the ballet echoed from the orchestra pit, Buquet stumbled, hitting the slats of the catwalk like a ton of bricks. The Phantom pounced just as Buquet rolled over. In lightning speed, the noose tightened around the stagehand's meaty neck.

Buquet struggled violently, but the lasso was unyielding. The Phantom was exerting no effort at all, and the light from the stage was enough to illuminate the impassive expression on his handsome face. Buquet's countenance was panicked and turning blue, a combination that was not handsome in the slightest. The stagehand pulled in vain at the rope around his windpipe, but the Phantom yanked it tighter. Staring contemplatively at Buquet's thrashing form, the Phantom smiled smugly. Joseph Buquet gurgled, his feet kicking wildly. So quickly that Kayla was unable to see how he managed it, the Phantom flipped Buquet over the edge of the catwalk and let him drop.

Joseph Buquet fell down in the centre of the stage. From where she stood, Kayla heard his neck break with a sharp crack. Dangling over the ballerinas, his body twisted and jerked like a macabre marionette. The young dancers screamed.

The Phantom grinned in a self-satisfied sort of way before releasing the rope, allowing the corpse to crumple to the ground. Rising to his feet, the Phantom of the Opera straightened his cravat and turned, staring directly at Kayla. Her heartbeat thundering in her ears, Kayla stared back in utter horror. The Phantom smiled, his lips curling, and brought one finger to his lips in a classic "shush" gesture. With a catlike leap, he flew up onto the topmost balcony and melted into the dark.

As soon as the Opera Ghost disappeared, Kayla regained control over her muscles. Stumbling and clinging to the ropes, Kayla shakily made her way off the catwalk and down to the wings.

Backstage was utter chaos. Dancers and actors were gathered in terrified clumps, dead silent or shrieking, depending on the group. Kayla dimly heard Firmin and Andre yelling from their box, pleading with the audience to remain calm and in their seats. Kayla's head spun and she leaned against the edge of a shelf. _At least _you're_ not dead_, a part of her interjected unhelpfully.

"Abbots!"

Kayla became aware that someone was shaking her shoulder, and Jamie's face appeared in front of her. "Abbots!" he repeated urgently. "You're white as a sheet – talk to me!"

"Buquet," Kayla said numbly. "His neck snapped." Her stomach churned in protest. "It's my fault." Jamie held her upright as she swayed.

"You need air," he stated firmly. "You look like you're going to be sick. Go up to the roof; there's a door on the third balcony. Take as long as you need, I'll handle the crew." Giving Kayla a gentle shove in the indicated direction, Jamie pretended not to hear her feeble protests. As he turned to go, he looked back. "It's not your fault," he told her resolutely. With that, he left to marshal the stagehands.

Kayla hurried as fast as her dizziness would allow to the roof. The air was refreshingly cold, and fluffy snowflakes were already forming dense drifts on the smooth, dark stone. Leaning over the raised edge of the rooftop, Kayla threw up over the side, hoping distantly that there were no unfortunate Parisians wandering the street below. She retched until there was nothing left in her stomach, which only amounted to the apple, the bun, and a lot of bile. Wiping her face with a handful of snow, and trying to rinse out her mouth with some ice, Kayla gripped the ledge with white knuckles. Tears left freezing trails down her cheeks, and she sobbed. A man was _dead_, and it was partially her fault.

Her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs as she cried with shock, fear, and homesickness. Guilt was a factor as well; Kayla had no love whatsoever for Buquet, but casually contemplating someone's murder was quite a different thing from watching them die right in front of you.

She had progressed to deep, shuddering breaths when she heard the door open. _No! My mouth tastes like vomit, therefore I can't run into Raoul and Christine right now, much less interrupt the most romantic duet of all time!_ Her brain wailed. So she hid, darting behind a gigantic marble statue of a horse.

Unfortunately, someone else had had the exact same idea.

The pedestal on which the statue stood was high, just a touch taller than Kayla's height of 5'10. So when Kayla scuttled behind, and spun around to sneak a peek at the two lovebirds, her eyes met fabric – black, luxurious fabric. A little ways up, leather shone in the dim light – boots. Dropping to her knees, Kayla held her breath and crawled across the icy ground to a different statue, and hid behind it instead. So focused was she on staying out of sight of the Phantom that she was barely aware of Christine whining/singing to Raoul about how scared yet conflicted she was.

"_Christine_…"

The eerie whisper drifted enticingly through the wind and flurries of snow. Kayla, who could see the source, noticed that the Phantom's mouth barely moved, though the name sailed audibly around the rooftop. Christine and Kayla seemed to be the only ones to hear the call. The Vicomte was certainly oblivious, and approached Christine with the confident air of a problem solver. Christine stared up at her childhood friend with doe brown eyes as round as saucers.

Listening to Raoul serenade Christine with tender romantic promises made Kayla's throat constrict. It was all well and good to watch to interaction on a screen, snuggled up on the couch with Samantha, where crying was a requirement, but being an actual witness was uncomfortably intimate – an intrusion. Plus, Kayla knew if she made any noise whatsoever, Christine and Raoul might notice her presence, thus leading to awkward questions. Or better yet, the Phantom would discover her, and the evening would end with Kayla strung over the edge of the Opera Populaire like a criminal on the gallows. Neither were appealing options. So Kayla kept her mouth shut and blinked furiously against prickling tears.

"_Let me be your shelter,_

_Let me be your light!_

_You're safe – no one will find you, _

_Your fears are far behind you…"_

Even though Raoul's reassurances were adorable, the fact that Christine's greatest fear was actually right behind her made Kayla silently snicker. She snuck a glance at the fear in question. The ghostly menace was visibly pissed, his clenched fists and heaving chest becoming very defined pieces of his dark silhouette.

"_All I want is freedom,_

_A world with no more night_…"

Christine's voice was tragically sad, as if having two men longing for her was the ultimate suffering, and as if the Ghost had been plaguing her entire life. Kayla had to shove her fist in her mouth to keep from bursting from her hiding place and screaming, "It's been a day! A DAY!"

When Christine wished for "_no more night_", the Phantom looked startled. In Kayla's mind, a mini Opera Ghost was running rampant. "_Whadya mean, no more night!_" Mini-Erik wailed. "_I wrote you a love song about the night, and you liked it! Why the flying cuss did you act like you wanted to sleep with me if you hated it?! What the hell is wrong with you, Christine?!_"

The young soprano sang on, blissfully unaware that a figment of Kayla's imagination was sassing her. "_And you, always beside me, to hold me and to hide me…_"

Raoul was grinning like he won the lottery.

"_Then say you'll share with me_

_One love, one lifetime_

_Say the word, and I will follow you;_

_Say you need me with you now and always_

_Anywhere you go, let me go too._

_Christine, that's all I ask of you_…"

Even though she could fault him for eternity on his impeccably poor timing, Kayla was still deeply impressed by the quality of Raoul's proposal – sweet, subtle, and lovely, yet not so cryptic as to make his intentions a mystery. Oh, Raoul de Chagny, no wonder women love you, Kayla thought dreamily. Christine's eyes lit up, and she moved closer to Raoul, tossing the Angel's rose to the ground, much to Kayla's displeasure.

Christine musically accepted the proposal, and after a minute more of duet, they started kissing. Granted, the Vicomte and the soprano were not privy to the fact that they had an audience, but the impromptu make-out happened so suddenly that Kayla had no time whatsoever to shut her eyes and give them some privacy. And now that she was watching, the romantic portion of her brain had absolutely no intention of looking away. Her inner commentary was alternating between squeals of delight – the majority – about how adorable it all was, and shrieks of "EEW I'm pretty sure that was tongue…" But when Raoul picked Christine up by the waist and spun her through the air, both parties of her mind were in complete agreement: spinning while kissing was flawlessly romantic.

As they drew apart, Christine smiled up at her new fiancé and regretfully sighed, "_I must go; they will wonder where I am_."

Raoul nodded and led her towards the door. "_Christine, I love you_."

Christine took his hand and skipped up the steps. "_Order your fine horses; be with them at the door!_"

"_And soon, you'll be beside me." _

"_You'll hold me and you'll hide me_."

And off the two lovebirds flew, back to the theatre, and probably the performance. A performance Kayla would not live to see if the Phantom saw her.

Silence reigned for about thirty seconds as Kayla and the Phantom both stared at the crimson rose lying bruised and abandoned in the white snow. The Phantom sprang lightly off the pedestal of the statue and walked slowly to his fallen gift. Kneeling down on the icy stones, he picked up the flower, cradling it gently in his gloved hands.

"_I gave you my music,_

_Made your song take wing;_

_And now, how you've repaid me,_

_Denied me and betrayed me_…"

His voice was shaking and miserable, and Kayla could not blame him; he had just been stabbed in the back by the one he held most dear. Gazing at the rose in despair, he stroked the petals and sang, "_He was bound to love you, when he heard you sing! Christine_…" He broke down and cried, clutching the flower to his lips as his shoulders shook. Kayla's face was immediately awash with tears, rivulets of frozen water crossing her cheeks like war paint.

And just to add insult to injury, an echo of Christine and Raoul's duet drifted on the breeze.

"_Say you'll share with me_

_One love, one lifetime;_

_Say the word, and I will follow you._

_Say you'll be with me each night, each morning_…"

As he listened to the ghostly reprise, the Phantom's shoulders tensed. His breathing became heavy and erratic, and he crumbled the already beaten-up rose in a shaking fist, pieces of scarlet and viridian floating to join the snow. Majestically rising to his feet, the Opera Ghost sprinted forward and climbed the statue that presided over the corner of the rooftop. His black cape billowing, the Phantom tossed back his head and sang his fury into the starry night.

"_You will curse the day you did not do, _

_All that the Phantom asked of you_!"

He held the final note for a long time before lowering his head and tightening his grasp on the magnificent stone wings of his perch, as if attempting to break the rock.

Kayla was still silently crying and shivering with cold in the shadows. "And he didn't ask you for much Christine, you conniving little tart," Kayla thought sourly, feeling desperate sympathy for the Opera Ghost. Unfortunately, he subconscious decided that the recipient of her support should be made aware, and thus Kayla had no idea that she had spoken aloud until there was an entirely unexpected response.

Firstly, the Phantom chuckled, shaking his head and staring down at the street below as if considering hurling himself off. Second, he straightened up and turned, realizing that the "tart" comment had not been part of his internal monologue. Coming to the exact same conclusion a few feet away, Kayla swore out loud in French before barrelling out from behind the statue and racing to the door. The girl sprinted down the stairs and did not stop until she reached the level of the stage.

* * *

**Author's Note: Y'all know the drill, review or PM with any questions, comments, or critiques! Thanks for reading, and for all those who have favorited, followed, or reviewed! You all rock!**

**Thanks!**

**Tierney**


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

15

Back on the rooftop, the Phantom whipped around just in time to see the terrified teen dart out from behind a statue and whisk back into the opera house, her ashy blonde ponytail bouncing off the back of her blue shirt.

_Mademoiselle Abbots_, his memory reminded him. The girl whom he had saved from Buquet. Also the girl who he had seen gesturing dramatically along to his admonishments when he spoke from behind the chandelier. Her rose lips had perfectly copied his warnings, even though he knew that there was no way she could have seen him, let alone have known what he was planning to say.

She had seen him. She had watched him weep for his love's betrayal, witnessed him losing control and screaming his challenge at the stars. And she had called Christine a tart. Even in his anguish, the Phantom could not help but laugh at her choice of words. How accurate: an angel turned tart and that ridiculous fop of a Vicomte – a match made in heaven. Or in hell.

But the fact remained that young Ms. Abbots knew more than was wise. Down in his lair at that very moment was her sketchbook, lying open on his desk, open to an eerily detailed portrait of his deformed yet smiling face. The matter of the hanging was also troubling; she had seemed horrified when Buquet had died, but not surprised. And though she knew he was a murderer, she had not told anyone. The Phantom sighed and rubbed his forehead. His experience told him not to trust her, but his intuition told him otherwise. Whatever the case, he decided, young Abbots would make a much better set manager than that fool Buquet.

**Author's Note: I know, that was short, but I won't leave you lovelies hanging for long. Thanks for everyone who has favourited, followed, or reviewed, and a special little acknowledgement to Scarlet, Paula, and E-man-dy-s who guest reviewed. Get accounts you three! ;) Anyway, feel free to drop me a line and review or PM with questions, comments, and critiques. **

**Thanks all!**

**Tierney **


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: If I suddenly, inexplicably became the owner of Phantom of the Opera, I feel like there would be some sort of media riot. As that has not happened, you can all assume it still belongs to Webber, Leroux, and others. **

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16

Kayla raced through the labyrinth of the backstage like a bat out of hell. _He saw you_! Her subconscious screeched. _He knows who you are and you won't live past dawn_!

So preoccupied was she with trying to shut up her internal monologue that she did not notice Jamie until she barrelled straight into his chest. "Oomph!" she grunted as she landed hard on the ground.

"What on earth are you running from, Abbots?" Jamie chuckled, extending a calloused hand to help her to her feet. "You look like the Phantom's on your tail!"

Forcing a laugh, Kayla replied, "Me? No, I'd assume he'd be more interested in the cast than the crew. But then again, he did just kill Buquet…"

Jamie let out a genuine peal of laughter. "Our fantôme is more merciful than I thought!" He grinned at Kayla, his brown eyes searching hers. "Are you alright? You're quite pale."

This time, Kayla's chuckle was genuine. "Yes Jamie; all the blood just rushed out of my face because I have come to the conclusion that you are an incredibly morbid individual."

"I'm flattered," Jamie exclaimed.

"That was not my intention," Kayla returned with mock-severity.

"Glad to hear it," Jamie stated solemnly, his lips twitching. "By the way," he added, fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket. "I'm glad to see you aren't as hard hearted as I am," he finished, gently wiping off the melting tears with the square of fabric before dabbing at the corners of her mouth.

Kayla was mortified. "I thought I had got all that off," she spluttered. "Oh, this is awful, your handkerchief…"

Jamie smirked at her. "It is a gentleman's duty," he proclaimed, rolling up the cloth and returning it to his pocket.

Kayla buried her face in her hands. "That's embarrassing," she squeaked. "But thank you, I guess."

"Anytime," Jamie interjected smoothly.

It was at this moment that Clemens interrupted. "If you would please refrain from monopolizing our new manager, Blanchard," he called out as he approached. "We're going to be interrogated in about ten minutes."

Kayla furrowed her brows at him confusedly, at which he shrugged. "The managers sent messengers to the police, and there's an investigation happening. They won't find anything, obviously, but they want to talk to the set crew specifically. They've already taken the body away and all that."

Kayla's mouth went dry. Attempting to ignore the sense of impending doom, she clarified, "So, the show's over, then?"

"Yes," Germaine answered as he too joined them. "The audience is leaving, and getting refunds… Firmin seemed pretty mad about it."

Kayla sighed and rubbed her forehead. "Are we doing a show tomorrow?"

"Yes," Clemens answered. "We're doing two weeks of Il Muto, so thirteen more shows, not counting this one."

"What day is it?" Kayla wondered.

"September 30th," Jamie snickered.

Germaine glared at him. "The poor girl's in shock, I don't blame her for not remembering the date," he rebuked. "Shut up, Blanchard."

While Germaine chewed out Jamie, Kayla quickly formulated a mental timeline. If the failed Il Muto show was on September 30th, the "three months of Elysian peace" would take them all the way to New Year's Eve: the Masquerade. _I'm going to have to stay in a movieverse France for three whole months?!_ Her mind screamed.

"What do you want us to do?"

Kayla looked up to all three men staring at her concernedly. Taking a deep breath, Kayla asked, "Do the cops want to see the stage?"

Clemens shrugged again. "I doubt it."

"Well, Sherlock Holmes would be pissed about this, but let's set up the stage for Act One Scene One again," Kayla concluded.

"Who's Sherlock Holmes?" Clemens pondered, sounding slightly jealous.

"He's a British detective," Kayla laughed. "Incredibly intelligent, and eccentric… handsome, too," she added teasingly.

Clemens and Jamie both glowered, though Jamie's looked exaggerated. When she grinned at them, they both winked. "Well, I've given my orders, let's get the others and set up the stage!" Kayla crowed.

Clemens whistled and the rest of the younger boys ran over, the older men following more sedately. "We're setting up for the first scene of the first act, so we'll need the bedroom walls and bed back out. Let's get this done, because according to Clemens, the police want to talk to us," Kayla instructed. The other crew members were not shocked by the news, and the younger men saluted before scurrying off to find the pieces.

Tapping her shoulder, Clemens leaned over and spoke in Kayla's ear. "Don't worry about the questioning, we already have an alibi; the whole crew's in on it," he whispered urgently. "Just go along with everything and anything we say and you'll be fine."

"Will it be sexist?" Kayla muttered.

"Possibly," Clemens breathed.

Kayla pursued her lips, but nodded in agreement. "Alright, then," she conceded. Clemens smiled, clapped her shoulder, and hurried off.

"How sexist is the alibi, exactly?" Kayla hissed to Jamie as they dragged a bedroom wall onto the stage.

"It's playing off your girliness, so fairly sexist, I suppose," Jamie said breezily.

"As long as it doesn't make the managers think I'm a slut," Kayla growled, the muscles in her arms burning as she held the set piece upright.

"We're your friends. We don't want you fired," Jamie insisted. "We would never imply anything like that."

"Promise?" Kayla knew she sounded childish, but if she was going to have to live here for three months, she could not have any threat to her job. Because if she lost this job, she was screwed.

"Promise," Jamie agreed gently. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

Thus Kayla was reassured, and had "Cross My Heart" playing on endless loop in her head for the next ten minutes of set up.

* * *

"Mademoiselle Abbots?" The voice of Gilles Andre prodded past the mental barricade of Marianas Trench lyrics.

Kayla turned from fluffing up the coverlet of the enormous bed, and the music in her mind dissipated. "Yes, Monsieur Andre?" she responded as calmly as she could manage.

"If you could please gather your crew and follow me, the police would like to speak with you now," Andre told her with a reassuring smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

Her empty stomach launched into an Olympic gymnastics routine. Nodding tensely, she signalled Jamie, who punched Clemens's arm before notifying the others.

The set crew trooped after Andre to the managers' office. Kayla felt she was heading off to her execution. The other teens, on the other hand, were strangely amused, chuckling and shooting each other knowing looks as they strutted down the hallway. Even the older men such as Germaine were cracking smiles.

Kayla's nervousness was increasing exponentially. If it was discovered that she had been the only person who had been on the catwalk with Buquet, she would get arrested, no questions asked.

When the door of the office came into sight, there was a stampede to reach it first. Clemens, who won the brawl that followed, blocked the doorway so Andre and Kayla could enter first.

The two officers turned their heads as the group walked in, and rose from their seats when they saw Kayla. Kayla inwardly cheered; respect for women was apparently a thing here.

"Monsieurs, mademoiselle," the first officer greeted with a small bow. "We would like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

"Not at all, sirs," Kayla lied politely. As Andre moved away to stand next to Firmin, Kayla sensed a warm presence at her back, and knew that Jamie was standing with her. It was a comforting thought.

"As you all are aware, Joseph Buquet was hanged this evening at approximately nine 'o'clock," the second officer explained pompously.

"We don't have any ideas as to who was responsible," the first policeman added, sounding much friendlier than his fellow cop. "As you were his colleagues, we hoped you could provide us with more information."

"Well, he was utterly rat-arsed a lot of the time, begging your pardon, sirs," Rene drawled while the others snickered into their hands.

"This is no laughing matter!" the more serious official snarled.

His companion chuckled. "So I am to assume he drank frequently, then?" he commented, jotting down the fact in a small notebook.

"Drank like a fish, he did," confirmed Germaine, while his fellows nodded approvingly. "Though he was an ill-tempered man whether he had liquor in him or not."

"His drinking has no bearing on the information we want!" the severe officer barked. "Do you know of anyone who has threatened to kill Joseph Buquet?"

Kayla could literally feel the subtle sideways glances of the set crew boring holes through her skull. "No!" they all chorused.

"Can you think of anyone who would benefit from Buquet's death?" Again, the peripherals of every stagehand in the room were fixed on Kayla, but again, the question was denied.

"Well, Firmin and I were planning on firing Buquet, and Ms. Abbots was our first choice for his position," Andre piped up. The second policeman looked like he had won the lottery.

Apparently sensing the terror coursing through Kayla's body, Jamie placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and cut in. "I beg your pardon, monsieur, but if you are implying that Mademoiselle Abbots was involved in the death of Buquet, I can assure you she was not."

"Is that so?" the second officer asked snidely.

"She fainted!" The chirp came from Baptiste, who, at fourteen, was the youngest member of the set crew. His fellow workers swivelled around, glaring at him. The skinny boy shrank into the collar of his hunter green work shirt, abashed.

"And why was that?" the kinder policeman addressed Baptiste, who looked to his teammates. The other teenagers gave Baptiste a synchronized look that clearly stated, _you are __welcome__ to try to dig yourself out of this one_.

Baptiste blushed and stammered, "After Signora Giudicelli left, sir, Mademoiselle Abbots came down from the catwalk, and she looked pretty dizzy. She was having trouble walking properly."

"And then she almost fell down a flight of stairs," interjected Rene, taking pity on the fourteen-year-old. The sixteen-year-old's comment caused half the crew to cough into their handkerchiefs, probably to hide their snickers.

"She was unconscious," Clemens carried on gravely. "So Marius and I carried her up to the roof."

Marius nodded. "We thought the cold would wake her," the seventeen-year-old added, "which it did."

"I asked her some questions when she came around, and as far as I could determine she fainted because she hasn't eaten for two days," Clemens stated, glowering at the two managers.

Marius, taking over the narrative, continued, "When we went back inside, we heard screaming, and Buquet's body was lying on the stage."

Kayla's head throbbed and she winced. Jamie looped an arm around her waist to support her, and said loudly, "Really, if anyone should be investigated, it's Buquet; he tried to kill her during Hannibal last night."

Both officers and managers looked horrified. "What? How?" Firmin spluttered. Andre's jovial face was grim.

"We were discussing when a certain piece had to be dropped, we disagreed on the timing, and he tried to backhand me off the catwalk," Kayla summarized weakly.

Jamie wiped off a section of her foundation with a corner of his handkerchief, displaying the vibrant purple-green bruise as evidence.

The first officer sighed and shut his notebook. "Thank you for your assistance," he began formally. "But I believe this case will be classified as Monsieur Firmin described: simply an accident."

The other cop looked like he wanted to interrupt, but a sharp glance from his partner silenced him. Inside, Kayla cheered. At least now, she wasn't going to be arrested.

"Do you have anyone who could confirm your alibi?" the officer mentioned, apparently as an afterthought.

"Madame Giry," Marius offered.

"Are we done here?" Jamie demanded, holding Kayla steady as the girl's vision suddenly blurred. "Need I remind you, Ms. Abbots still has not has a decent meal."

"Yes, of course," the officer allowed. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen and lady."

The managers looked relieved. "Performances will resume as normal tomorrow," Firmin stated. "We will let you know if there are rehearsals sometime in the morning."

"Yes sir," Kayla nodded politely, gripping Jamie's arm.

"You are all free to go," Andre smiled, gesturing at the door.

"Merci," Baptiste squeaked.

With that, the stage crew waltzed out of the office, with Jamie and Kayla leading the way.

* * *

**Author's Note: Here you are, a bonus chapter for being such good readers. I wasn't going to post two today, but I felt bad with the last chapter being so short. I'm having a busy time of it, what with coaching a team at my old high school and trying to arrange missing lectures, and the possibility of failing my Spanish course looming over my head, due to the fact that the woman running the course has never taught a class in her life and is quite frankly a mediocre teacher. So yah, I'm a little wound up, so apologies for the rant.**

**Y'all know the drill; read, review or PM with questions, comments, or critiques, follow, favourite, enjoy... whatever floats your boat. **

**Thanks! **

**Tierney **


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: It should come as not surprise to anyone that Webber, Leroux, and others are the proud owners of Phantom of the Opera**

* * *

17

The procession moved steadily through the halls, down a narrow flight of stairs, and into a section of the opera house that Kayla did not recognize. In a dimly lit but cozy room filled with long wooden tables, Jamie sat Kayla down on a bench and whisked away. He returned balancing two bowls, a loaf of bread on a cutting board, and a wickedly sharp knife.

"Sebastian's still got bread in the oven, and a big pot of stew on the stove, so you lot go get your own!" he barked.

The rest of the stagehands hurried through another doorway, presumably into the kitchen. Jamie placed a bowl and a spoon in front of Kayla and began to slice up the steaming golden loaf. "Eat up, Abbots," he said encouragingly.

Kayla did not need to be told twice. Taking a scoop of food, she popped the spoon into her mouth, barely avoiding burning her tongue. The gravy was steaming hot and delicious, filled with tender pieces of beef, sweet slices of carrot, and thick, creamy slices of potato. Kayla was in heaven. "It's so good!" she mumbled through a full mouth. Jamie chuckled and handed her thick slice of baguette.

The rest of the crew returned soon after with their own bowls, and Germaine and Henri were juggling twenty one mugs and two bottles of wine in addition to their own food. Sliding their burdens down onto the table, Germaine arranged all the mugs on the wooden surface and neatly filled each with the maroon liquid. The alcohol was then distributed to the group.

Kayla hesitatingly picked up the small cup and looked up as Germaine cleared his throat. "I know that Buquet was not well loved by the Populaire, least of all by us," the fatherly man said slowly. "But for all his faults, he at least bothered to work hard. And his behaviour, though appalling, provided us with the change of management we so desperately needed." He raised his mug and nodded at Kayla. "To Abbots," he proposed. "And to an improved rest of the season."

"To Abbots!" the shout echoed around the room as the crew lifted their cups to toast their new manager. Kayla blushed and took a careful swig of wine as the other men drained their portions.

The wine was spicy and slightly bitter, burning the back of her throat. Swallowing quickly, she took another careful bite of stew. "Wine's not your thing?" Jamie smirked, leaning over to check the level of her drink. When Kayla shook her head, Jamie snatched up the mug. "Baptiste!" he called, preparing to slide the wine across the table.

Sticking out her hand to block the pass, Kayla queried, "What on earth are you doing?"

"Giving your wine to Baptiste; what does it look like I'm doing?" Jamie laughed.

Kayla shook her head vehemently. "He's fourteen, even one glass is too much," she insisted sternly. "Give it to one of the seniors; Claude, maybe." Shrugging, Jamie slid the mug over to Claude. The fifty-year-old toasted Kayla before downing the wine in one gulp.

"Aw, why couldn't Baptiste have it?" Clemens groaned, sticking his lip out at Kayla. "He's hilarious when he's tipsy!"

"Come on guys!" Kayla exclaimed exasperatedly. "Getting hammered is not going to make our jobs any easier."

"Hammered?" Baptiste repeated confusedly.

"Drunk," Kayla clarified. "We're the set crew of the Opera Populaire, one of the best operas in France, for heaven's sakes! It's an honour and a privilege, and without us, the show doesn't happen. It's a serious responsibility," she concluded. "And besides," she added. "Getting wasted is the ballet corps' area of expertise, not ours."

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then the room was filled with laughter. Jamie threw back his head and howled at the ceiling. More than one person looked like they almost choked on a spoonful of stew before starting to laugh. Slamming his head down on the table, Clemens buried his face in his arms, his shoulders shaking. Rene and Marius toppled on the bench, and proceeded to roll around on the floor in hysterics. The other teenagers were all laughing so hard that they appeared to be having trouble breathing.

"Was that too far?" Kayla asked Germaine anxiously.

The older man just shook his head, his eyes twinkling merrily.

"Not at all," Claude wheezed, leaning across the table to speak to her. "That was very witty, and undeniably accurate."

"Except for the little girls," Jamie chimed in thoughtfully. "And Meg Giry. But besides that, they are wee drunks, aren't they?"

With that, the senior hands also broke down, roaring with hilarity and slapping each other on the back. "The dancers' job!" Henri choked, and everyone lost it again.

It took a very long time for them all to calm down enough to speak coherent sentences without giggling. Kayla's mood improved dramatically as the meal progressed; her stomach was full of food, her mind was energized by the comedic conversation, and her body felt very warm and comfortable.

Somewhere in the room, a clock chimed eleven. Kayla's eyes widened, and she quickly slurped up the remainder of her stew. "Okay, everyone, finish up and go get some rest," she suggested.

The teenagers immediately morphed into four year olds. "Aww! Why?" Rene whined.

"Don't be such a baby, Rene," Kayla grinned, moving to stand. "Even if the managers aren't freaked out enough to have an emergency rehearsal, I want our crew up early and rehearsing. _We_ have to be perfect, even if no one else is."

"It makes sense," Henri agreed, nodding. The other six over-thirty stagehands rose to their feet, prepared to comply with her request.

"When would you like to see us, Abbots?" Germaine inquired respectfully.

"Eight 'o' clock," Kayla decided. "We can meet on the stage, talk about how the day's going to work, go to breakfast, and then come back and set up."

"Just so ya know, lass, seating generally starts at eight," Claude mentioned. "The actual performance starts about half an hour after that."

"Thank you, Claude," Kayla acknowledged, smiling at him gratefully.

"I don't see why we have to go to bed," Clemens moaned.

Kayla immediately turned on him, but Baptiste reacted first. "She wants us to be awake again in nine hours!" the young boy drawled, putting his hands on his hips. "We need our rest if we want to pull off a stellar performance."

Clemens opened his mouth to retaliate, but quickly shut it again as he realized that he did not have a valid argument.

"Goodnight, gentlemen," Kayla yawned, brushing a few strands of blonde hair off her forehead. "I will see you all at eight."

She had walked all the way to the dorm before she realized that she had no idea how to get back to the dorm. Swivelling around, she marched back to the table. "I don't know how to get back to the dorm," she stated bluntly.

Jean, Dennis, Gaston, Leo, Antonio, and Julius immediately burst into laughter. Clemens, Andrew, Xavier, Rene, Marius, and Baptiste reacted oppositely, and glared at the amused young men.

"Sacre bleu; why _the hell_ is that funny?" Marius snarled. The six other boys stopped laughing instantly.

"Need I remind you, she was practically fainting when we came down here?" Baptiste screeched.

"She hasn't eaten for two days, you bastards!" Andrew spat.

Kayla held up her hands. "Whoa now, calm down, boys," she coaxed. "I don't mind, and it honestly is funny that I still don't know my way around. No need for coronaries and hyperbole on my account."

The insults stopped, but the death glares did not. There was a period of silence in which the young stage hands on either side of the table stared each other down. The seniors and Jamie, the neutral party, watched with smiles playing about their lips. "Apologize to the lady," Clemens growled dangerously.

"Sorry, Abbots," the six culprits mumbled, shamefaced.

"Don't worry about it, guys; it's fine," Kayla brushed it off good naturedly. "But it still doesn't solve the problem that I want to go to bed and have no idea how to get there. Would someone mind showing me the way back?"

Jamie bounded up like the bench was on fire. "I will, my lady," he volunteered, pretending to be overly excited. He skipped over to her and held out his arm, which Kayla graciously accepted.

As Jamie escorted her through the darkening hallways, he pointed out landmarks that could help her find her way, and supplied a constant stream of information concerning which halls led where, the purposes of the different levels, and which sections of the building to avoid. It was all very helpful, and Kayla hoped she would remember it all.

"Here we are!" Jamie announced grandly, sweeping his arm towards the dormitory door as they traversed down the hall towards it.

"Thank you, sir," Kayla simpered, dropping into a curtsey.

"It was my pleasure, my lady," Jamie assured proudly.

The two stared at each other in complete silence for about three seconds before they both cracked up. As they stood there snickering at their own antics, the door swung open and Meg Giry stuck her head out. "Kayla! There you are!" the golden-haired dancer exclaimed. "I couldn't find you after the performance, and Maman and I were getting worried!"

Jamie turned to Kayla with a disappointed look on his face. "She's allowed to call you by your first name and I can't?" he pouted.

"Man up, Blanchard," Kayla teased, shoving him with her shoulder. "It's a right you'll have to earn."

"Very well," Jamie sighed. "Goodnight Abbots, goodnight Mademoiselle Giry." Grinning cheekily, he strutted back down the hall.

"Go to bed and make the rest of the crew go too, Jamie!" Kayla yowled after him. The chestnut haired stagehand waved to show he had heard before turning a corner and disappearing from view.

When Kayla turned back to Meg, the ballerina was watching her with a look of concern. "Are you alright?" Meg asked. "I heard you got questioned by the police."

Kayla shrugged. "It wasn't a big deal," she explained, following Meg into the dorm. As soon as she was fully through the door, she got swarmed.

The young ballerinas were in a frenzy of panic. There were fifteen so-dubbed "ballet rats", all of whom had been in the audience of Kayla's rendition of Beauty and the Beast. "We were so scared!" one of them shrieked, wrapping her pale, skinny arms around Kayla's waist. "We thought la fantôme had gotten you!"

"I'm okay, I'm okay," Kayla assured, giving the young girl a squeeze.

"If le fantôme had gotten you, we would never hear the end of the story!" another squeaked.

"LENA!" the others admonished loudly, turning on her and ignoring the hisses from the older dancers in the room.

"But I am okay, and you will hear the rest of the story," Kayla intervened, chuckling at their attitudes. "Just not right now; it's late, and you ladies should be sleeping… as should I."

"Will you tell us the rest tomorrow?" a third inquired.

Kayla grinned and nodded, and, squealing, the young ballerinas scuttled off to their beds.

Meg showed her the way to a bathroom so Kayla could brush her teeth, and thanks to her handy-dandy bag of modern convenience, Kayla was able to. The bathroom was nowhere near as primitive as she was expecting, which was a relief. When she returned from her sojourn in the restroom, many of the candles and gas lanterns had already been extinguished.

Cautiously navigating the dusky rows of beds, she made her way to the nook under one of the round windows, which her and Meg's beds occupied. A pale beam of moonlight illuminated a sharp dark shape resting on her pillow. Moving as quietly as she could as to not disturb anyone, Kayla snatched up the object. It was her sketchbook. She hugged it to her chest before setting it down so she could change.

Once she was attired in her nightgown, and her bag and clothes were safely stowed in her trunk, Kayla slid under the covers and leaned against the headboard, relying on the moon for light as she gingerly opened the sketchbook. Nothing seemed to be missing or out of place. When she flipped to the drawing of unmasked Erik, a white envelope dropped out from between the pages.

Kayla eyed it dubiously_. A declaration of war, no doubt_, her thoughts whispered darkly. There was no denying it now; the Phantom of the flipping Opera had been through her sketchbook, and he had seen all of her artwork, including his own face. She was so screwed.

The wax seal had been slightly squished by the covers of the book, giving the red skull a distorted, comical appearance. Flipping it over, she read the sharp, ornate cursive that graced the front:

_Mademoiselle Abbots_

There was no allowance of even a molecule of doubt. Snorting, Kayla ran her nail under the wax edge and pulled open the envelope. Kayla held the fancy stationary up to the light, squinting at the black ink.

_Mademoiselle Abbots,_

_Congratulations on being the only individual in the Opera Populaire to adequately follow my orders this evening. Continue to do so and you will have nothing to fear._

_Await further instructions._

_Your faithful patron,_

_O.G._

Kayla scowled. There was no reason for him to be so cryptic. Further instructions? Why on earth would she need further instructions? After checking the back of the page, which was annoyingly blank, Kayla returned the note to the envelope and stuck it back into her sketchbook. Returning the sketchbook to her trunk and grabbing her phone and ear buds, Kayla jumped back into the mercifully warm bed and quickly scrolled through her music to set an alarm. Placing one silent bud in her ear, she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note: I know, only one chapter today, but if it's any encouragement, there's a 75% chance that I'll double post next week. My classes are totally hectic at the moment, but on the bright side I only have a little over a week of lectures to go. Anyway, thanks for reading, and review, PM, favourite, follow, etc. if the mood strikes you. You guys are awesome. **

**Thanks!**

**Tierney**


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Leroux, Webber, and others. **

* * *

18

There was no such peacefulness deep within the catacombs of the opera.

Certainly, the Phantom's lair was perfectly quiet, but the serenity of the caves did not reflect the state of the Phantom's mind. The Opera Ghost's thoughts were in utter turmoil. He sat at his desk, staring at the model of Il Muto, his anger escalating no matter how hard he tried to stay calm.

Betrayal! How he despised the word. He had not believed Christine to be capable of inflicting such a wound. Fault lay with the Vicomte also; what right had that ridiculous boy to take his angel of music? Seething with fury, he grabbed a ceramic paperweight off the desk and hurled it at the stone wall. The smash of the shattered pieces hitting the stone floor was fairly therapeutic. Fingering the lasso tied to his belt, the Phantom lamented that he no longer had a readily expendable employee of the Opera Populaire; at this point the only thing capable of distracting him would be murder.

Pushing the chair back, he stomped over to the organ and sat down. Running his hands over the ivory keys, the Phantom willed himself to play, to compose, to channel his rage into his masterpiece. He shut his eyes and lightly pressed the keys. About a minute in, he realized that he was not playing Don Juan Triumphant, but the soft, simple chords of the song that Ms. Abbots had so mysteriously produced on the stage that morning. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Abbots. He mulled the name over in his mind as his fingers coaxed the bittersweet notes from the organ. The girl was a mystery, never fully explained. He did not even know her given name, and he had far too many questions to count. How on earth had she convinced the managers to hire her so quickly? Granted, her work was so efficient that he had no complaints, but where had she come from? A young lady working in the set crew was a phenomenon that the Phantom had neither seen nor heard of before. What qualified her to do manual labour rather than perform? Why had she been able to mimic his speech before the words had even crossed his lips? And most disturbingly, why was his face in her sketchbook? Not once, but multiple times his image had appeared in the creamy white pages.

When he had seen the image of himself unmasked, his first instinct had been to tear out the page and destroy it. To tear it up, to set it on fire, anything that would erase all evidence of its existence. But the workmanship stayed his hand.

The drawing was in colour, and accurate enough to be a photograph. Every detail of his face had been carefully captured, and the proportions were practically perfect. But his likeness was smiling, grinning at something the viewer could not see. The image had looked so happy that the Phantom had stared at the coloured drawing for many minutes before turning the page to an even stranger picture – him, with arm around Christine, standing with Raoul de Chagny and an older gentleman whom the Phantom did not recognize. The black and white figures smiled at the Phantom from within the page.

The representations of him were so oddly intriguing that the Phantom was hard pressed to be angry, and they were so beautifully drawn that he could not bring himself to destroy them. Leaning back in his chair, the Phantom considered the sketchbook thoughtfully. She was a very skilled artist, and evidently a hard worker, and though she knew who he truly was, he could not afford to get rid of her. So he had simply returned the sketchbook to the empty dorm before going to interrupt the performance.

Now, as he recalled all this, he realized that the situation could work to his advantage. A very faithful assistant could be created if he played this right. Her art skills and her background role in the opera could be just what he needed…

"Erik?"

The Phantom lazily turned his head and saw Madame Giry standing next to one of the secret passages. The ballet mistress was staring at him intently, her hands on her hips. "Antoinette!" the man greeted, sitting up and folding his hands casually behind his head. "How lovely of you to visit! You enjoyed the performance, I trust?"

His friend shuddered at the morbidity of his statement before she replied. "God knows we needed to be rid of Buquet, but could you not have disposed of him without scaring my dancers half to death?"

"They were frightened," the Phantom mused. "Good."

"They were more frightened for Mademoiselle Abbots' safety than of Buquet's corpse," Madame Giry corrected, rolling her eyes at his pleased look.

"Ah, yes, how is Mademoiselle Abbots?" the Phantom sneered. "Safe, I presume?"

"Surprisingly calm, after a shock like that," Madame Giry admonished. "She thinks you want to kill her."

"Why _in hell_ would I want to kill a young girl?" he growled, disgusted with the very idea.

"Maybe because she knows too much," Madame Giry shrugged, not meeting his eyes.

"Because she has somehow seen my face?" he demanded. "And she knows it so well that she has multiple drawings of it?"

Madame Giry stayed silent.

"She tried to talk to me, Antoinette," Erik continued. "When I stopped her from falling last night, and this morning in the theatre, she knew I was there. Strange, isn't it? She seemed to sense exactly where I was. Who is she, Antoinette, and why does she know so much?"

"You have to promise you will not harm her," Madame Giry insisted.

Erik glared at her. "I already stated I do not murder little girls," he hissed. "Now, who is she?"

Madame Giry bit her lip. "She is Canadian," she began simply. "But from a different time, and apparently a different world."

"What?" Erik spat.

"All of this, this opera house, this… story, she calls it, is a legend where she comes from," the ballet mistress explained haltingly.

Erik rubbed the bridge of his nose. "What kind of evidence does she have to prove this?" he asked tiredly.

"She knows how we met and what I saved you from," Madame Giry listed. "She told me all about the caravan and the gypsies, and that you live under the opera house. She understands that you should be treated with extreme caution; you should see the trouble she takes to do everything perfectly."

"An intelligent girl," Erik commented. "Unlike the majority of your corps. Anything else?"

Madame Giry smiled, ignoring the barb against her dancers. "She described your mask – white porcelain worn on the right side – and informed me that the opera you are writing is titled Don Juan Triumphant. That is correct, is it not?"

Erik nodded mutely. He had told no one the name of his masterpiece.

"And she believes, and I quote, 'he is a genius in every sense of the word, he loves box five for some reason, and he dresses with more class than any man I have ever seen'. And though she has evidently seen your deformity, she told me she thought you quite handsome." The ballet mistress grinned at Erik's perplexed expression. "She was also aware that you take the role of an Angel of Music and that you are teaching Christine…"

As the final word crossed Madame Giry's lips, Erik picked a candlestick off the top of the organ and hurled it at the wall. It hit the floor with a satisfying metallic clang.

"What happened, Erik?" Madame Giry sighed.

"Do not speak of _her_," Erik snarled, tightening his hands into fists to keep from slamming the keys of the organ.

For a long moment neither of them spoke. "What are your intentions for Kayla?" Madame Giry asked tentatively.

"Kayla… so that is her name," Erik mused. After another pregnant pause, he replied, "I will busy composing, so I plan to have Ms. Abbots create the set book for me. Besides that, she will manage the backstage as per her current occupation."

"Why?"

"I need to focus on my music," Erik murmured distractedly. "Ms. Abbots will draw according to my exact instructions, and no one shall be any the wiser that it was created by her and not me."

"You never did like to be dependent on anyone," Madame Giry ventured. "Why the change?"

"Curiosity," Erik said ruefully. "I have viewed her art, and I want to see what young Ms. Abbots is truly capable of."

"Well, she will be relieved that you do not want to kill her," Madame Giry laughed, turning to leave. "Goodnight, Erik."

"Excluding you and I, she is the one with the least to fear. Sleep well, Antoinette."

* * *

**Author's Note: A bonus chapter for all of you awesome people! Do not fear, there shall still be an additional chapter up tomorrow. Just thought I might as well post a chapter today since I had a minute and - pause for dramatic effect - my classes end this week! Plus since it's December I'm super excited for break and Christmas and all that jazz, so maybe that Christmas spirit will lead to some bonus chapters for you, who knows. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favourited, or followed, and please feel free to continue doing so. **

**And just a response to my two guest reviewers, since I can't PM you guys:**

**E-man-dy-S: You are very welcome. Hope you enjoyed this one!**

**Guest: Yes, the matter of Kayla's phone being fully charged at all times... Let's just say her phone is going to remain in power stasis until she returns home. Or it's magical. Whichever explanation suits you. :)**

**So, one final question: I need ideas for how I should fill up the time during the "three months of Elysian peace". Three months is a huge amount of time to cover, so I'd appreciate input. Review or PM with ideas!**

**Thank you all so much!**

**Tierney **


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Leroux, Webber, etc. Not me. Nor do I own Vertigo by U2 or The Importance of Being Ernest. **

* * *

19

Kayla's alarm went off at seven fifteen sharp.

"_Lights go down, it's dark, the music in your head can't rule you heart…_"

Kayla woke up to U2 in her ears and a pounding in her head. _And this_, she thought contritely, _is why I don't drink_. Apparently even half a glass of wine was enough to give her a small hangover, but the headache could have been a result of the stress of the past two days.

Unwinding herself from the duvet, Kayla clambered out of bed, an action she immediately regretted. The floor was ice on her bare feet, and the air was freezing. Outside, snowflakes danced on the wind.

Gathering up her bag and a bundle of clothes, Kayla tiptoed to the bathroom where she brushed her teeth and, much to her delight, took a bath in the old style tub, washing her hair with the lavender shampoo provided by her marvelous bag of modern convenience. Kayla vowed never to take such luxuries for granted again. She dressed quickly, once again in the standard blue shirt, black pants, vest, and boots. The ruby pendant was warm against her skin.

She snuck back into the dorm once more to return her sleep clothes to her trunk and to make her bed. Leaving her bag and sketchbook locked away, Kayla struck her phone into her vest pocket before heading off to the stage.

"_I can feel the beast, wrestling for a check; girl with crimson nails has Jesus round her neck, swinging to the music, swinging to the music…"_

Bono sang on in her ears as Kayla navigated the winding halls. The stage was empty, the rest of the crew not yet present, but as it was only quarter to eight, this was easily forgiven. She plopped down on the edge of the fluffy Il Muto bed and lay back, her slightly damp hair cool against the back of her neck. Kayla found herself envying the actors; this bed was comfy. Arching her back in a stretch, Kayla gave a little sigh of contentment. As much as she was concerned with how this adventure was impacting her "real" life, she felt more at home here than she would have expected. Back home, she would be missing classes, unless, of course, time worked differently here… in which case, her entire family could be dead by the time she popped back to the modern world. To which she would say brav-freaking-o.

Kayla sternly halted that train of thought, as her main concern at this point was supposed to be not pissing off the Opera Ghost, therefore staying alive long enough to actually get home. She could worry about time continuity later.

The mattress bounced, and Jamie's beaming face appeared above her own. "Good morning, ma chérie," Jamie smirked.

Kayla shoved his shoulder, and the stagehand toppled off the bed with a loud thunk. "Surname only, Blanchard!" Kayla crowed.

Jamie stuck his tongue out at her before clambering back up onto the bed and perching next to her.

"Where is everyone?" Kayla questioned, surreptitiously turning off her phone and sticking it and her headphones back into the pocket.

Jamie tucked his hands behind his head and stared up at the frescoed ceiling. "The over-thirties are up and on their way," he recited. "The rest of them are in various stages of crawling out of bed, and when I left, Jean and Xavier were having a row."

Kayla bolted upright. "What? Why?" she spluttered.

Jamie grinned up at her. "Over whether you were prettier than Christine, of course," he explained smugly. "Jean was in favour of Christine, but Xavier disagreed."

Kayla's cheeks matched the colour of her necklace. "Why the hell would they bother rowing over that?" she asked sceptically.

"There've been two camps since you were hired," Jamie clarified.

"Team Daäe and Team Abbots?" Kayla suggested sarcastically. To her surprise, Jamie nodded.

"The over thirties are remaining uninvolved, but besides that, the two sides are even," Jamie stated, sitting up and stretching. "It's not that we don't all think you're pretty, because we all agree on that, it's more about comparison."

"What team are you on?" Kayla teased.

"Team Giry," Jamie said promptly.

Kayla laughed. "You're talking about Meg, right?"

Jamie's brown eyes bulged, and he also began to cackle. "Sacre bleu, it sounds so wrong when you say that!" he choked.

Thus, when the older stagehands arrived, they found Kayla and Jamie on the bed and floor respectively, rolling about in a fit of hysterical giggling.

"What did you say, Blanchard?" Claude accused menacingly, a twinkle in his dark eyes notifying Kayla that his ire was not serious.

"I was just telling her about the fight in the dorm," Jamie snickered.

Germaine rolled his eyes.

"If those boys focused as much on their jobs as they did on girls, we would be the greatest set crew in France," Henri stated amusedly.

"I thought we already were!" Jamie protested with a chuckle.

"The greatest set crew in the country? Don't be daft, boy," Claude drawled. "Working at the best opera house in France does not by any means make you the best."

"What's this about being the best?" Clemens' voice echoed ahead of him as he appeared in the wings.

"You're not the best!" Germaine barked. "That's the end of it!"

"Where is everyone else?" Kayla asked for the second time.

"They were right behind me," Clemens explained cheerfully, jerking his thumb back towards the hallway. True to his word, the other teens materialised moments later.

It took an additional three minutes before the final two stagehands, Xavier and Jean, arrived, out of breath and sporting brilliant black eyes. Neither of them could meet Kayla's gaze as she sat staring at them.

"I expected more from both of you," was her only remark before she turned away and addressed the rest of the crew. "Okay guys," she began, clapping her hands together. "Another performance of Il Muto tonight, seating starting at eight, so we should be entirely prepped by seven-thirty, tops. Do we know the cast list yet?"

"No, but whether Christine or la Carlotta is playing the Countess should not affect the quality of our work," Dennis replied strongly.

Kayla grinned and nodded approvingly. "Correct, thanks Dennis," she acknowledged.

The eighteen year old boy bowed. "My lady," he responded.

Marius snorted, and Dennis's friends immediately swivelled around to glare at him.

"Hearken to me!" Kayla snapped, waving her arms in the air. "The sooner we get our plan sorted, the sooner we can eat, so listen up!"

True to her expectations, the side interaction was put on hold and the entire crew faced her again, listening attentively. "Is there a planned rehearsal for today?" Kayla asked, looking to the seniors.

Germaine shrugged. "I have not seen the managers," he explained. "Regretfully, I have no more information."

Kayla pursed her lips and frowned, thinking.

"SACRE BLEU!" Clemens yelped, leaping backwards and holding his hand to his heart. "Abbots looks like Madame Giry!"

They all examined her face for about a minute before laughter ensued. "That she does!" Jamie gasped. Baptiste bent in half, leaning on his knees and wheezing. Kayla glowered, but her look only increased the volume of their hilarity.

"ENOUGH!" Claude finally roared, impatient with the pace of the meeting. The gruff shout succeeded in shutting everyone up, and attention once more returned to the new manager.

Clearing her throat, Kayla re-explained. "So, if there is a hastily scheduled rehearsal, I want us all in the wings fifteen minutes early if we can. If there's no rehearsal, I want us backstage at least an hour before we're supposed to be, and maybe after lunch we can do a little rehearsal of our own."

"It's settled, then," Clemens stated, clapping his hands together. "Let's go get breakfast."

With a loud cheer, the set crew bounded off stage, dragging Kayla along. And in the midst of nineteenth century teenagers, Kayla felt completely at home.

* * *

"So everyone's just staring at the urn that Jack is carrying, and finally, Algernon stands up and walks over to look at it. His mind is totally racing, and he just improvises: 'Oh, I thought you would like my little joke! The old Ernest is dead, long live the new Ernest!' And then…" Kayla paused to take a deep, shuddering breath. "He taps his cigar ash into the urn!"

Everyone at the breakfast table lost it. Jamie slammed his head repeatedly against the edge of the table, while Clemens howled up at the ceiling. Baptiste had rolled off the bench and was curled up in a ball of the floor. Dennis kneeled next to him, and both boys' eyes were streaming with tears of laughter. The other juniors were in similar states of hysterics, and the seniors were chuckling merrily.

The set crew was the only group currently in the dining hall, so there were no other witnesses to Kayla's recital. The cooks were probably hearing the boisterous laughter, but a few well-placed compliments from Kayla about the food of the previous evening had landed her in the centre of their good books, and Kayla knew they would not mind the noise.

"Please, please don't stop," Xavier pleaded with a groan.

"Don't stop what, may I ask?"

Madame Giry's stern accented voice reached their ears from the open door, where was she observing the chaos amusedly.

"I'm telling them a story, and they seem to be enjoying it," Kayla snickered, twisting around to face the older woman.

"Sit down for a spell, Antoinette!" Claude guffawed, patting the bench beside him. "Ms. Abbots is a fine storyteller!"

Madame Giry allowed a small smile to escape. "Unfortunately, I cannot," she replied. "I need Kayla to accompany me for a moment."

Kayla took a swig of water out of her mug and squinted at the ballet mistress. "Is there a rehearsal? Or some sort of costuming issue?" she guessed.

Madame Giry shook her head. "No, Kayla. The managers would like a word with you."

"Helvete," Kayla hissed under her breath. She rose to her feet, shoving the wooden bench backward. "Well, off I go to get fired, my friends!" she exclaimed cheerfully.

"Don't be silly!" Germaine laughed.

"I'm not so sure," Jamie deadpanned. "Abbots is quite the trouble maker."

"We'll miss you, Abbots!" Baptiste teased.

Kayla gave a sweeping bow. "Maybe I'll be back, maybe not, my lads," she proclaimed. "Best of luck to you all. Love you!"

The crew's cheering and catcalls followed Kayla and Madame Giry all the way out the door and into the hall. "What's this all about, then?" Kayla questioned as Madame Giry took the lead.

"I do not know," Madame Giry shrugged. "But the managers were quite insistent."

Kayla sighed. "I really am going to get fired, aren't I?" she moaned.

"I doubt _he_ would let that happen, my dear," Madame Giry assured quietly.

At the mention of the Phantom, Kayla stopped dead in her tracks. "Is this about the 'proposition' he has for me?" she groaned. "I got a note. Last night. And now I'm nervous. It was annoying."

"I doubt the managers would know about that," Madame Giry corrected. "But he is not going to let you leave this opera house until he puts whatever plans he has for you into motion."

"Wonderful," Kayla exclaimed sarcastically. She could not decide whether the knowledge that she was essentially trapped here at the Phantom's whim was reassuring or terrifying.

The pair walked in silence until they reached the managers' office. Andre answered their knock immediately. "Merci, madame," he thanked Madame Giry. "Please come in, mademoiselle." Madame Giry gave Kayla a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before walking away down the hall, leaving Kayla to enter the office alone.

Firmin was pacing nervously in front of the round window as Kayla and Andre walked further into the room. "Mademoiselle Abbots!" the manager greeted, hurrying forward to pull out a chair for her. "I hope we were not interrupting anything."

"Not at all," Kayla lied. "I was just arranging the schedule with the set crew."

Firmin sat down across the desk while Andre occupied the chair next to Kayla. Kayla positioned herself gingerly on the cushions. "There is a… task, of sorts, that we feel may require your expertise," Firmin ventured finally.

Kayla blinked. "So I'm not getting fired?" she blurted.

Andre let out a hearty peal of laughter. "Goodness, no!" he choked. "Get rid of the best set manager this opera house has ever had, don't be ridiculous!"

"The task we require you for is much more difficult," Firmin stated hesitatingly.

"What do you need me to do?" Kayla asked warily.

The managers exchanged a worried look before Andre slowly answered.

"Talk to la Carlotta, of course."

* * *

**Author's Note: Thank you all for reading, please review or PM with questions, comments, critiques, or any other ideas for the three months of Elysian Peace. Quite a few of you have already given me some great ideas, so thank you! And thanks for everyone who reviewed, followed, or favourited for the last chapter!**

**Thanks! **

**Tierney **


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Webber, Leroux, etc. **

* * *

20

Kayla's jaw dropped open, but she recovered quickly and chuckled. "You're kidding, right?"

The managers shook their heads.

Staring at them skeptically, Kayla inquired, "Why on Earth would you need me to talk to Carlotta?"

"Andre and I are of the opinion that La Carlotta should return to the Opera Populaire," Firmin spoke nervously. "We understand that Ms. Daäe is supremely talented and that she is… favoured, but Carlotta is just as talented, more experienced, and extremely popular with the public."

"You don't think you can afford to lose her," Kayla translated.

"No," Firmin agreed. "We cannot."

Kayla pursued her lips. "That still doesn't explain why you need me."

"We thought that a bit of gentler persuasion would be more effective," Andre reasoned, "As Firmin and I are not exactly in her good graces. And as a new member of the company, we felt that you would have the least amount of bias for the situation."

Kayla could not believe what she was hearing. "The first interaction I ever had with her was _a threat_," she emphasized. "And I sassed her from then on out. How could this possibly be a good idea?" In fact, as the omniscient presence, who had watched different versions of this story, in its entirety, more times than she could count, Kayla could not think of a single person with more bias that she had.

"You stood up to her," Andre argued. "And I have a feeling that she respects you for it."

"You don't have any other options?" Kayla asked after a pregnant pause. The managers shook their heads again. "Fine. I'll do it," Kayla sighed morosely.

Firmin and Andre looked excited and relieved. "Thank you, mademoiselle," Firmin stated gratefully.

Andre bounced to his feet and clapped his hands. "Excellent! I will call the carriage!" He bounded out of the room.

"Where are we going, exactly?" Kayla realized abruptly, turning to Firmin.

"Signora Giudicelli's residence," Firmin replied. "Andre and I will be waiting in the lobby. Take your time," he directed graciously.

"Thank you, monsieur," Kayla curtsied and walked out of the office as quickly as propriety allowed. Once she had shut the door, she whipped around and sprinted down the hallway. Skidding around the corner, she ran straight into someone walking the other way. She and the person with whom she had collided toppled to the ground with a thud. "Helvete! Jävla helvete, I am so sorry…" she shrieked, but her voice trailed off as she realized that the person whom she had bowled over and was now draped unceremoniously on top of was none other than Raoul de Chagny. Dammit.

"Mademoiselle Abbot," the Vicomte greeted, grinning up at her in what appeared to be genuine delight. "It is a pleasure to see you!" His blue eyes were very amused, and today his hair looked golden brown, like toffee.

Blushing furiously, Kayla scrambled off his chest and held out her hand to help him up. "I am terribly sorry, Vicomte," she apologized, her voice stiff with embarrassment. "Are you alright?"

Raoul took her offered hand and stood up. "I have been in worse pain," he joked good-naturedly. "My brother Philippe used to knock me down harder than that… he still does, in fact."

It took Kayla a couple of seconds to realise that he had not let go of her hand. "I need to go," she stuttered awkwardly. "Sorry again for knocking you over." She tried to extract her hand, but he had a grip like iron. Just when she was considering punching him as her only available option of escape, he spoke.

"Of course," Raoul purred, raising her hand to his lips and kissing it before he relinquished his grip. "Your cheek is healing, I trust?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," Kayla stammered, confused by the question. It took her a moment to conclude that he was most likely referring to the handprint left by Buquet after the first performance. "I've gotta go, bye!" And, screw propriety, she bolted down the hallway like a bat out of hell.

"I will see you soon, Mademoiselle Abbots!" Raoul called after her.

Kayla did not stop running until she hit the stage. It was empty, unlit and dreary. She kicked the wall, her boots producing a satisfying thud. "Shit," she spat. She could not understand why she was so unnerved by the interaction with Raoul, though it was probably because she tended to overanalyze and stress over almost every awkward encounter she had with another human being. Why did he even remember her name? In addition, the hand holding incident was weird, if not bordering on creepy. Would that have counted as harassment back home?

_Hello? Hellooooo? Earth to Abbots?_ her brain interjected. _Don't you have a Prima Donna to persuade? _

_Oh. Right._

Kayla halted her abuse of the wall and headed back up the stairs to the dorm.

When she entered the room, a few of the dancers were awake and moving around, but most were still unmoving lumps. Meg was awake, but still sitting in her bed. To Kayla's surprise, Christine was sitting next to her friend. The two girls had their heads together and were whispering conspiratorially when Kayla scurried up and kneeled down to unlock her trunk.

"Morning, Kayla," Meg whispered, smiling kindly at her.

"Hiya, Meg," Kayla chirped, rummaging through the pile of fabric.

"What are you doing?" Christine wondered softly, watching Kayla's actions curiously.

"The managers – curse them – have decided that I am going with them to try to convince Carlotta to come back," Kayla yipped with sarcastic cheeriness.

Christine and Meg both clapped their hands theatrically over their mouths and stared at Kayla in horror. "But why?" Christine murmured her face downcast. "Was I not good enough? Is_ he_ disappointed in me?"

"I don't think your Angel's disappointed with your _singing_, sweetheart," Kayla quipped. "There could be something else though. _He_ doesn't have anything to do with this; the managers just wanted some sort of insurance in case the pressure gets to you. Congrats on your engagement, by the way," she added, taking a cursory glance at Christine's swan-like throat, where the glint of a gold chain was visible. With a jolt, Kayla realized that the soprano's chain was identical to the one which was hidden under her shirt, locked around her own neck.

"How…" Christine began, while Meg looked shocked.

"You owe me ten francs at payday, Giry," Kayla chuckled, continuing her search through the trunk. Sitting back on her heels, she moaned, "What _the hell_ does one wear to a diva's house? I sure as hell can't wear pants."

Meg sprang up immediately. "Oh, let me help!" she offered, kneeling next to Kayla on the wooden floor and peering into the trunk. And thus, power was transferred to the two sixteen year olds. Meg and Christine made Kayla put on the floor length black skirt, and were trying to force Kayla into a corset before Kayla put her foot down. Thankfully, the grey blouse was not too tight without the corset.

When she was dressed in the grey blouse, black skirt, and black stockings, Meg pushed Kayla down to sit on the bed, bounced behind her, and began to French-braid the older girl's hair. Christine, meanwhile, began to line Kayla's eyes with black kohl. "I feel like a doll," Kayla giggled, trying to stay completely still so the two girls could work.

"I am only going to line your eyes," Christine decided, finishing and setting the cosmetics aside. "Simplicity is the best method, I think. If you look too fancy, Carlotta may feel threatened."

"Good thinking," Meg agreed, knotting the end of Kayla's braid with what felt like a ribbon.

"Thank you, Christine and Meg," Kayla acknowledged with a grateful grin. "This is kind of a new thing for me."

"You mean you have never dressed up?!" Meg yelped, sounding scandalized.

"I don't get out much," Kayla shrugged, knowing that even though these girls were her almost-friends, the revelation of being from another century would end the camaraderie in a flash. Along with her life, as the Phantom would most likely take her out. Very violently. Technically, she dressed up in her own time period, but she had never been styled for 1870, so she was not _really_ lying to Meg…

"Oh, you poor thing," Christine cooed sympathetically, sounding very much like a mother. Kayla resisted the urge to laugh.

"But I can't see you guys getting out very much," Kayla commented as the two girls stood her up and directed her toward a long mirror at the other end of the dorm. "Living in an opera house under Madame Giry's guardianship."

"We get out enough," Meg smirked, positioning Kayla in front of the mirror before stepping back.

When Kayla saw her reflection, it took her a moment to comprehend exactly what she was looking at. The girl in the mirror was elegant, poised, and the picture of class. The black and grey of her outfit made her skin look paler, and the kohl made her blue eyes pop. Her skirt brushed over the tops of her work boots, which were the only shoes she currently had, but their presence did not detract from the appearance. In short, her reflection looked like the perfect model of a nineteenth century lady. Kayla reached up and ran her fingers over the tight French-braid, pulling the end forward to reveal the azure blue silk ribbon that Meg had used to fasten the blonde strands. "I look good," Kayla snickered, turning to examine her profile. "You can do my makeup every day, Christine, how about that?" The young singer glowed happily with Kayla's praise.

Kayla pulled the two girls forward, looping her arms over their shoulders. "Look at us!" she exclaimed, staring at the three girls reflected in the mirror. The golden haired dancer, blonde stage manager, and brunette soprano smiled from out of the liquid glass. "We are hot!"

Meg and Christine giggled at Kayla's excitement. "Thank you for your help, darlings, but I must be off now," Kayla announced, giving the two girls a quick squeeze before dropping her arms and turning away from the mirror.

"Good luck, Kayla," Meg laughed, looking very pleased the product of her handiwork.

"Take a cloak with you; it snowed quite a bit yesterday," Christine advised confidently. Kayla clearly recognized the unconscious allusion to the rooftop sojourn of the previous night.

"Oh, that reminds me!" Meg yelped, scurrying to her own trunk. Across the smooth wood was draped a thick, royal blue cloak with a hood. "This is yours," the ballerina explained, holding the garment out to Kayla. "Maman came by this morning to give it to you, but you weren't here."

Kayla accepted the cloak with a nod of thanks. "Merci, to both of you. The managers are expecting me, so I must be off." With a final wave to her famous new friends, Kayla hurried back out of the door.

* * *

**Author's Note: So, this chapter is posted a day early because my stressful exam week starts tomorrow and I most likely won't be able to post. Therefore, here is a chapter today. I'll see if I can post tomorrow, but unfortunately no guarantees on that. **

**Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favourited, or followed, and thanks to E-man-dy-s, my guest reviewer from the last chapter. **

**Hopefully you enjoyed this one, and remember, feel free to drop me a line if you have questions, comments, or critiques, or can think of anything else for the three months of Elysian peace! **

**Thanks!**

**Tierney **


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note: Still do not own Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

21

He did not mean to see the three girls in the mirror. Erik had simply been on a tour of the tunnels and passages, checking that all the entrances were still concealed and secure. It did not help that he was bored. The adrenaline from Buquet's death had worn off, and he was finding himself obsessed with the potential uses of the girl from the future. Did she know _his_ future? How was his story to end? The idea was driving him insane, and he decided that an inspection of the Opera's tunnels would be routine enough to take his mind off of her, not to mention his Angel and the fop.

He turned the corner to the mirror passage in the dancers' dorm, intent on simply checking for any cracks or gaps in the defenses, and then leaving without any further observations. Erik had no interest in watching the silly ballet rats. He may be a Phantom, but he was not without chivalry.

As he completed the quick scan of the tunnel, he lifted his head and found himself looking out of the mirror. Stopping short, he stared.

Three girls were framed behind the tinted glass. Little Meg Giry and his Angel were standing behind a strange young woman, beaming as the unknown girl seemed to examine her own reflection. A black skirt reached down to the floor, and a slate blouse lightly hugged her curves. Her streaky blonde hair was arranged in a tight braid. The girl laughed. "I look good," came her muffled comment. The tone and pitch was unmistakable. It was Mademoiselle Abbots.

Erik gaped at the transformation. He had not recognized her out of her work clothes. His new stage manager had morphed into a very noble lady. Behind her, Christine grinned widely, and Erik felt his heart clench in pain. He could see the chain around her neck, upon which she was most likely carrying the fop's ring. He held back a growl.

Abbots reached behind her and drew the two younger girls forward to stand next to her. Resting her arms on their shoulders, she grinned into the mirror, almost appearing to be looking into Erik's eyes. "Look at us!" she cried admiringly. "We are hot!"

The three girls giggled, and Erik found his lips curling upward without his consent. Grinning into the mirror, they looked like goddesses, confident in their immortality. He could not even summon up his anger at Christine's betrayal. Looking at the joy and youth of the young women in the mirror, Erik found himself feeling something akin to happiness. "Thank you for your help darlings, but I must be off now," Abbots explained distantly, turning away. The other two also swivelled around. The spell broken, Erik spun and walked back down the tunnel, unable to quench the soft smile that lit up his masked features.

* * *

**Author's Note: Just a little bonus chapter for you all in return for not posting yesterday. It's not very long, but hopefully the slight Kayla/Erik interaction will make it worth it. **

**Thanks for reading, and please review, follow, or favourite if you get a chance! **

**Thanks!**

**Tierney **


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera has never and most likely never will belong to little old me, so continue to thank Webber, Leroux, and others for their fine contributions to musical, literary, and cinematic masterpieces. **

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22

It did not take very long for Kayla to retrace the route from the dorm to the managers' office, and from there to the lobby. The two managers were waiting patiently by the door, attired in their thick coats and furs and top hats. "Mademoiselle!" Firmin greeted as Kayla pattered down the wide staircase. "Thank you for your haste. The carriage is waiting outside, if you would please follow us." With that, Firmin strode out the front doors.

Andre, however, stood by while Kayla threw the cloak over her shoulders, tied the thick silky ribbon around her neck, and snuck her iPhone into a handy little pouch inside of the cloak. "You look very nice, Ms. Abbots," he complimented warmly, offering Kayla his arm as they moved toward the door.

"Thank you, Monsieur Andre," Kayla replied with a cheeky grin. "You don't look too bad yourself."

The pair walked quickly down the marble steps to the main doors. There was a long line of richly dressed people waiting on the shallow stairs outside the opera house, probably in a queue for tickets, as Kayla and Andre exited the Populaire. Kayla could not pay attention to the crowd of their future audience, because Paris was covered in snow.

Fat, fluffy flakes were drifting gracefully out of the soft bluish grey sky, and the lampposts, railings, and buildings were all blanketed with thick drifts of white. The sky was cloudy, but the snow was sparkling on the ground. The trees on the avenue glittered with frost. Kayla, completely accustomed to the harsher bleakness of a Calgarian winter, found the scene utterly magical.

Andre held open the door and helped her into the carriage. Smoothing out her skirt as she settled herself on the cushy seat, Kayla peered out at the winter wonderland of the city as the two managers sat down on the seat opposite. "How far away is Carlotta's place?" Kayla inquired offhandedly as, with a loud creak, the wheels began to move and the horses' harnesses began to jingle as the carriage began its journey.

"Not very long," Firmin replied, taking off his hat and setting it down on his lap. "Signora Giudicelli's townhouse is in the northern area of the city. It will not take long." The sleek haired manager leaned back in his seat and stared up at the ceiling as if settling in for a long vigil. Kayla watched him for a moment more, but as no further information was forthcoming from either him or Andre, she too relaxed into the cushions and watched as the snowy streets of Paris passed them by.

When Firmin had mentioned Carlotta's "townhouse", Kayla, in all her modern thinking, had pictured a tall, sophisticated brick structure, like something out of _the Devil Wears Prada_. When she recalled that she was in nineteenth century France, her mind immediately leapt to pictures she had seen of Versailles, which she was not even sure existed yet. Carlotta's residence ended up being more like a tremendously intimidating version of _Pride and Prejudice's_ Pemberly. The carriage stopped in front of a large, black, iron-wrought gate, and it was pulled open by a group of white-wigged men in plum livery. The enormous front lawn was piled high with snowbanks. Pulling around a tall fountain, the carriage halted in front of the grand front door.

"What do you want me to tell her, exactly?" Kayla asked, suddenly quite nervous.

"Whatever you think will convince her to return," Firmin whispered simply.

"We have complete faith in you," Andre put in reassuringly as another purple-coated man walked down the steps. "We will be waiting out here when you are done."

_So no pressure_, Kayla thought sourly, realizing that they expected this to be a quick visit. The carriage door opened, and Kayla clumsily got out. "Merci," she said to the servant who had opened the door, and the elderly gentleman smiled and bowed.

Kayla put her hand self-consciously to her throat, where the rose pendant was radiating warmth. She took a deep breath. _All right, relax, it'll be fine_, she told herself sternly.

The same male servant opened the gleaming wooden double doors, gestured Kayla into the mansion, and shut them behind her. Kayla stood awkwardly in the entrance hall for a lonely moment before a maid in a matching plum uniform and a jaunty little black muffin cap came scurrying down the stairs. "Are you here to see Signora Giudicelli?" the girl questioned as she hurried towards Kayla.

"If she will see me," Kayla confirmed dryly. "I'm assuming she's in a foul mood?"

The maid – who looked to be about Meg and Christine's age – nodded. "She's in a right temper, madame, but I will ask if she will see you. Would you like to sit down?" The girl held out a pair of luxurious looking bedroom slippers. "I hope you do not mind taking off your boots."

_Finally, a recognizable custom!_ Kayla inwardly cheered at the reference to Canadian culture, even though she felt slightly in over her head. "Yes, of course," she consented, bending down and deftly unlacing her leather boots. Leaving them by the front door, along with her cloak, and sliding on the warm slippers, Kayla followed the young maid into a sitting room.

"Please, sit," the maid offered with a curtsey. "I will tell Signora Giudicelli you are here. Shall I give a name?" she added, looking at Kayla expectantly.

"Kayla Abbots," Kayla replied politely. "Thank you."

"Make yourself comfortable, Madame Abbots," the maid finished, and whisked away again. Kayla resisted the urge to comment that she was a twenty year old single girl, not even close to a madame.

Lowering herself gingerly onto a couch, Kayla glanced at the room around her. The couch she was sitting on was covered in lovely fuchsia velvet; most of the seats in room were, in fact, warm-palate velvet. All the wood visible was stained in a dark brown shade, and gleaming with polish. The wooden floors were covered with flashily patterned Persian carpets, thick and fluffy with golden cord tassels. Glass cabinets standing like sentries along the walls held various trinkets and baubles. One, Kayla was surprised to note, housed an extensive collection of delicate china teacups. The walls were papered with an ornate design of golden blossoms and vines, but barely any was visible under all the posters and rather conceited artwork hung on the wall; every single one heavily featured Carlotta.

Kayla was staring blankly at a particularly garish portrait of Carlotta and Piangi when an unholy shriek drifted violently from upstairs. Stifling an exclamation of her own, Kayla perched rigidly on the edge of the couch as footsteps thundered through the frescoed ceiling above. Feeling quite out of place in her skirt and blouse, about to face the dreaded tempest of a star, Kayla took a preparatory breath_. Face the music_, she reassured herself.

The apparently angry prima donna stormed down the stairs, heels clicking loudly as she traversed the marble foyer. As she turned into the sitting room, the singer's eyes met Kayla's, and the diva stopped short. "You!" she yelped, pointing an accusatory finger at Kayla.

"Me indeed," returned Kayla dryly.

Carlotta hovered uncertainly in the doorway for a moment more before she swept inside and plopped down on a bright pink chaise lounge with a huff. "What are you doing here?" the Italian woman demanded. "The managers sent you, didn't they?"

"I'll admit, it wasn't my first choice of assignment," Kayla confirmed coldly.

Leaning back on the tall cushions of the chaise, Carlotta sighed heavily. The prima donna's thick red curls were tied back with a simple cream ribbon, and her olive skin was glowing, clear, and natural. Without the regular layer of cosmetics, Carlotta's face was actually quite pretty; she looked younger, and her features were softer. A cerulean blue satin house coat was draped loosely around her long, white cambric night gown. Though she had most likely just gotten out of bed, Carlotta looked ready for a _Vogue_ photo shoot.

"Let me guess: they want me back," Carlotta exclaimed tiredly, her bold black lashes fluttering shut. "I don't see why they would send you. They have less of a chance of convincing me than anyone from that tasteless place."

"That's what I told Firmin and Andre," Kayla shrugged, flipping her streaky blonde braid back over her shoulder. "I told them there wasn't much that could get you back, but would they listen? No! The only person more stubborn than those two is you."

Carlotta lifted her head and squinted at Kayla. For a moment, Kayla worried about getting evicted from the premises, but the diva simply cackled. "No one has ever said anything to me that can compare to the outrageous insults you pay me. I like you."

"I don't see anything endearing about me continuously sassing you," Kayla remarked, relaxing onto the couch. She had not expected Carlotta to be this easy-going.

"Everyone else, they just flatter, flatter, flatter," Carlotta stated, waving a manicured hand dismissively in the air. "But you, you tell it like you see it – you don't care about getting on my good side. I respect that."

"You do the same thing," Kayla pointed out, grinning.

"Exactly!" Carlotta cried. "We are alike, you and I. Neither of us is worried about impressing the other."

"So, am I correct in sensing a 'screw the drama, let's be friends'?" Kayla joked.

"Allies," Carlotta clarified, sitting up and holding her hand out to Kayla, who looked apprehensively at it for a moment before reaching out and shaking the diva's hand.

"Allies," Kayla agreed strongly. Carlotta released her grip, and both women leaned back in their seats again.

"Those managers, they think they can convince me to come back, just like that?" Carlotta seethed, twisting on the chaise lounge to stare out the window at the managers' coach. "Lure me back in with jewels and chocolates and doggies, like some sort of spoiled baby."

"You do have to admit, though, storming out in the middle of rehearsal is kind of infantile," Kayla suggested hesitatingly, not positive how her new "ally" would react.

"The manager before, Leverfe, wouldn't listen to me unless I made a scene," Carlotta sniffed. "Is it so bad that I want to set a high standard for the opera?"

"No," Kayla responded slowly. "It's just that maybe not everyone is able to reach your standards, and I tend to doubt that many people have as much invested in a performance as you do."

"I'm not going back," Carlotta muttered rebelliously, shutting her eyes again.

Kayla knew for an absolute fact that Carlotta _would_ return to the Opera Populaire, but she knew that convincing the soprano to come back would require great diplomatic skill to achieve. "I guess they'll be casting Christine as the Countess for the rest of the Il Muto shows, then," she sighed, glancing at Carlotta out of the corner of her eye.

"That _puttana_ Daäe?" Carlotta snarled, bolting upright. "Why would they cast her?"

"You have to hand it to her, she has a beautiful voice," Kayla commented mildly. "She can hit all the high notes, the audience seems to love her, and she's a lovely little thing. She loves singing, you can tell. And the poor dear's trying so hard."

Carlotta glared at the young stage manager, but said nothing. So Kayla plunged ahead.

"She's a gentler, more modern soprano, but she doesn't have the same experience, stage presence, or operatic vibrato, which is why the managers are still pushing to bring you back," Kayla explained, glancing out the window at the courtyard, where the coach sat as the grey horses pranced impatiently. "I was thinking about that earlier, and I figured out a plan that could work… but you probably don't want to hear it, since your mind's made up," she added teasingly.

Carlotta's eyes narrowed. "I'm listening," she stated warily.

Kayla readied her arguments. "What I was thinking," she began, "was that you and Christine share the prima donna position." Carlotta's eyes bulged, and the diva opened her mouth to protest. "Oh no, you don't, I'm not finished and you are going to hear me out," Kayla admonished, raising an eyebrow at the singer. "Both of you seem to have a significant amount of admirers, so completely cutting one of you out of the cast would take away a significant portion of the Populaire's audience. So we would have to determine a system by which all of our audiences remain happy." Kayla paused, trying to gauge Carlotta's reaction, but the prima donna's expression remained neutral.

"Go on," Carlotta prompted brusquely, but the fact that the soprano was still intrigued by her speech encouraged Kayla.

"My idea," Kayla continued, "was to have you and Christine alternate playing the lead for performances; so she would sing lead for one performance, and you would perform the next night. Both of you would have the option of taking secondary roles on your off nights. Neither you nor Christine would have to give up the lead; you'd still be a major part of all the shows; and it would likely make your jobs less stressful. And the opera wouldn't lose revenue," she concluded.

Carlotta was completely silent, and Kayla feared that her idea had not been received well. "Being prima donna seems like a lot of pressure to put on one person," Kayla remarked, staring at her hands. "It was just an idea," she added lamely when no opinion from Carlotta was forthcoming. Resigned that convincing the diva would not be a success today, Kayla rose to her feet. "I am sorry that I could not convince you," Kayla stated, trying to mask her disappointment. "I'll go now; the mangers are waiting outside for me." Struggling with the heavy black skirt, Kayla turned towards the door.

"Sit down, Abbots!" Carlotta barked.

Kayla hit the cushion with the split-second reaction time of one who had spent a lifetime as an obedient older sister.

Carlotta swung her legs over the edge of the chaise so she was sitting upright and facing Kayla. The prima donna examined Kayla's face, scrutinizing. "If I was to agree to this," she said slowly. "And Daäe gave up; I would be full prima donna, yes?"

"I suppose so," Kayla shrugged, trying to supress the bubble to hope expanding in her chest. "But I don't think she'll give up. I have a feeling that her more dubious ally can be very… persuasive."

At the subtle hint of Opera Ghost, Carlotta visibly shuddered. "What kind of hold does it have? That a spectre has so much control over our lives."

"Blackmail and death threats," Kayla suggested promptly, relaxing into the embroidered cushions. "The use of state enforced force and terror to control its citizens and eliminate dissent. That's how most dictators get their stuff done."

At this, Carlotta threw back her head and laughed. "A dictator," she chortled. "I have never thought of it that way, but yes, that so-called ghost is one." The diva grinned broadly at Kayla before swiveling around to face the door. "Minette!" she yelled.

The maid from earlier rushed into the room seconds later. "Yes, signora?"

"Tell Benedict to make the managers leave," Carlotta ordered, tugging on a red curl that had escaped from its tie.

Shooting a quick glance at Kayla, Minette queried, "What shall we tell them if they ask after Madame Abbots?"

"Mademoiselle," Carlotta corrected carelessly. "Tell them I wish to speak with her for a while longer, and they needn't wait."

Minette cracked a small smile. "Very cryptic, signora," she complimented. "Will you need anything else?"

"Some tea, brought up to the music room," Carlotta requested. "Thank you, Minette."

"Of course, signora," Minette acknowledged with a perfect curtsey, and walked calmly back into the foyer.

Kayla and Carlotta exchanged and brief, mysterious look before hopping off their chairs and sneaking over to the window, where they knelt under the sill to spy.

The dignified doorman moved briskly down the front steps to the carriage. The window was opened, and Firmin stuck his head out. Kayla could hear none of the conversation, but the manager appeared to be speaking quite vehemently. Andre's round face joined Firmin's a moment later, and the grey-haired manager looked worried. There were a couple minutes of terse conversation, sensing argument was futile, nodded and disappeared from view. The driver cracked the whip, and the horses and carriage trotted down the lane and out of the iron-gate.

Kayla turned to Carlotta with a quizzical smile on her narrow face. "So, what's the plan?" she ventured. "If none of this works out, you could always kill me and make it look like an accident."

Carlotta, who seemed to appreciate Kayla's morbid sense of humor, grinned. "We go to the music room," she said simply, rising elegantly to her feet. "Come."

Clambering to a standing position, Kayla repositioned her skirt again and followed the diva out of the sitting room. The two women strolled down the wide, airy hallway, passing a multitude of closed mahogany doors and open archways alike before Carlotta finally stopped. "Here we are!" she cried, flinging open a set of shiny wood and glass double doors and whisking inside. Kayla followed cautiously.

The room was large, practically the double the size of Kayla's apartment back home. The walls were a deep yet gentle shade of rose. There were two golden framed, floor-to- ceiling mirrors that Kayla eyed suspiciously before turning her attention away. Large windows on one end of the room looked out onto the snow covered garden and grounds, while a cheerful fireplace crackled away on the opposite wall. A harp stood proudly in a corner, along with a guitar, but the crowning jewel was the gleaming grand piano in the centre of the room. The ivory keys shone, and the darkly stained wood was polished to perfection.

"That is a gorgeous piano!" Kayla gasped.

"Do you play?" Carlotta asked.

Kayla shrugged. "I took lessons when I was younger, and I remember a few pieces, but I'm no expert. My sister's a genius, though. Do you?"

"No, I don't play," Carlotta snickered, sliding her manicured hand over the gleaming wood. "I just like the way it looks." Without warning, Carlotta nudged Kayla closer. "Play something," she requested.

"I'm not very good," Kayla protested dubiously.

"Just do it," Carlotta smirked.

Kayla carefully manoeuvered herself onto the bench, tapping her toes experimentally on the shiny golden pedals. _What to play?_ Kayla only knew a select number of simple pieces that Samantha had taught her to play, and she was not an expert at any of them. So it was with great caution that she began to piece out "No One Would Listen", Gerald Butler's gorgeous solo, which had been, much to her dismay, cut from the 2004 film and soundtrack, and not even a part of the stage performances, but was easily accessible on her dear friend, YouTube. It was short, simple, and belonged in the movieverse – perfect.

Carlotta stood by and listened in silence as Kayla coaxed the notes from the beautiful instrument. "You should talk to Maestro Reyer," she suggested as Kayla finished the song. "You could probably play piano for the orchestra."

Kayla raised an eyebrow at the diva. "In addition to managing the set crew? Good luck with that," she returned. "And that would be ignoring the fact that I can't read music to save my life."

There was a soft knock on the doorframe, and Minette walked briskly into the room, carrying a full tea tray. Setting it down on a table by the window, the maid turned to Carlotta and asked, "Will you need anything else, signora?"

"No, that will suffice, thank you Minette," Carlotta answered. The maid curtsied and left.

Kayla rose from the piano and followed Carlotta to a small seating area by the window. "That's one of the only songs I know how to play," she mentioned ruefully as the diva poured the tea. "I'm not even remotely orchestra worthy. My sister, on the other hand, would love it."

"Enough whining about your 'lack of talent'," Carlotta snapped. "Tell me about your sister."

And thus, Kayla found herself discussing her younger sister with an apparently interested prima donna whist sipping tea out of flowery china cups. The topic then jumped from Samantha to Carlotta's family life, at which time Carlotta explained that she and Piangi were not actually married, an arrangement that Kayla privately resolved to rectify. From Piangi it moved to Italy – "It was so sunny and warm," Carlotta sighed, "None of this awful cold and snow," – and from there to the ridiculous amount of snow, at which point Kayla laughed and proceeded to explain the violence and unpredictability of Calgarian weather. After that, they argued over the superiority of different dog breeds; Carlotta adored her tiny miniature poodles, while Kayla, though more inclined towards cats, preferred larger, intelligent dogs, and had a deep seeded dislike of any dogs shorter than her knee.

When Kayla finally glanced up at the clock, she was shocked to see it was half past noon. "Shoot, it's late!" she exclaimed, struggling to her feet. "The managers will be wondering where I am!"

Carlotta lazily followed Kayla's gaze and shrugged. "Let them wonder," she sneered. "I'm in no hurry. Let them worry."

"So you are coming back, then?" Kayla clarified slyly.

Carlotta rolled her eyes dramatically but nodded in defeat. "Yes!" Kayla cheered, pumping her fist in the air.

"Come with me," Carlotta ordered briskly as she sashayed to the door. "I want you to write up the terms of the arrangement with Daäe." Kayla stuffed two more cookies in her mouth before following the diva. Following Carlotta up a wide, curved staircase to the second floor of the manor, Kayla let the prima donna lead the way into a large bedroom, presumably Carlotta's. The diva in question hurried into a walk-in closet, screaming for Minette.

"You wanted me to write up the terms of your surrender?" Kayla inquired sarcastically.

"Yes," Carlotta barked. "There is paper on the desk."

Kayla looked around the luxurious chamber, drinking in the rich fabrics and gilded décor. When her eyes finally landed on the gleaming mahogany desk, she sauntered towards it. Carefully picking up a fancy fountain pen and a sheet of crested stationary, Kayla sat down. "What do you want me to write?" she called.

"Your explanation," Carlotta replied from the closet. "Sharing the position, alternating shows, option for secondary roles, phrased so she can't argue. Whatever keeps the so-called Opera Ghost off our backs."

As Minette helped Carlotta into a flashy red dress with gold beading, wide, ruffled, hooped skirt, sweeping neckline, and elbow sleeves, Kayla neatly wrote up the terms of agreement. Every so often, Carlotta would think up another point she wanted, and Kayla would add it. By the time Carlotta was dressed, fully made up and hair styled, the lengthy contract was complete. "Sign here," Kayla indicated, handing the pen to the diva. Carlotta signed her name in large, loopy script, and tossed the pen aside.

"Come," Carlotta snapped, grabbing the cloak Minette held out for her as she marched out the door.

"Thanks, Minette," Kayla whispered, with a smile for the young maid.

"My pleasure, mademoiselle," Minette grinned.

* * *

**Author's Note: It's a day early, but what the heck. Might as well get another chapter up. This is a long one today, and hopefully the Kayla and Carlotta interactions weren't too bad... Let's be clear, they are allies, rather than friends, and will continue to sass and insult each other for the remainder of Kayla's stay, but they can work together and be civil. Kayla is going to try to survive in the Populaire diplomatically, so she's going to try to avoid enemies. **

**Anyway, thanks if you read this far. Review or PM with questions, comments, or Elysian peace months brainstorms, and follow or favourite if the mood strikes you. To all those who reviewed for the last couple of chapters, thank you very much, and special notice to Samantha and E-man-dy-S, my two guest reviewers. If I didn't PM a thank you for anyone' s review in the last couple of chapters, forgive me; I had my last exam yesterday and things were incredibly hectic with studying and such. **

**Thanks everyone!**

**Tierney **


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note: I still do not own Phantom of the Opera. I asked Santa but he said no.**

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23

On the way downstairs, Carlotta and Kayla stopped by a room filled with shelves upon shelves of shoes, and Carlotta spent a number of minutes trying to find a suitable match for both her outfit and the weather outside. Once that task was complete, they hurried down the stairs, Carlotta with high heeled gold boots in tow. The carriage was called for, and Carlotta waited impatiently as Kayla put on her blue cloak and laced up her black work boots. When they were both ready, the two women hurried through the chilly air to the carriage. "The Populaire," Carlotta instructed, and with a light snap of the whip, the four chestnut horses started to trot. Carlotta and Kayla passed the ride in silence, which, unfortunately, allowed Kayla to consider the Phantom's possible reactions to the contract, none of which were very pleasant.

As the carriage turned onto the Populaire's wide, treed boulevard, Kayla leaned forward and handed the small pile of contract pages to Carlotta. The diva accepted it without a word, her only response being a sharp nod which Kayla decided to interpret as gratitude. The horses stopped, the carriage door opened and Carlotta and Kayla climbed out onto the snow covered steps of the Opera.

The crowd of ticket buyers parted like the sea when they spotted the diva sashaying up the stairs. While Kayla hurried behind her, the prima donna threw open the doors with an almighty bang. Firmin and Andre, who were in a whispering huddle with Madame Giry and Raoul at the top of the stairs, whipped around to face the noise. Carlotta practically skipped towards them, her gleaming white teeth bared in a victorious grim. "I have a contract!" she declared triumphantly, waving the sheaf of paper in the air. When Firmin and Andre bolted to the soprano, Kayla snuck past the group. Madame Giry smiled at her as Kayla passed her on the stairs.

"Well done, Kayla," Madame Giry said quietly, moving out of earshot of the Vicomte.

"I've got them alternating," Kayla whispered conspiratorially. "Christine and Carlotta both get spotlight."

Madame Giry sighed and nodded. "I am sure this did not go completely according to plan, for the managers or for the Vicomte, but it will suffice," the ballet mistress allowed.

"Whatever keeps our friend downstairs happy." Kayla flashed a wink at the older woman, who smiled back knowingly. With that, Kayla danced away down the hall. As she ventured further into the passages, thoughts of a waiting menace filed her mind. She could picture the Phantom creeping behind her, reaching out to loop around her neck…

"Mademoiselle!"

Kayla yelped and leapt a foot in the air, startled by the unexpected noise. The fact that it was Raoul who was rapidly approaching made it all the more surprising, and slightly unsettling. Biting back a scream of "WTF", the girl looked quizzically at the Vicomte as he moved nearer. "What have you done?" the nobleman asked, sounding no small bit irate.

"What have _I_ done?" Kayla shot back. "Nothing, actually."

"Do not lie to me," Raoul spat. "The contract – you wrote it."

Kayla raised an eyebrow. "You could read it all the way through, and I doubt my name is anywhere on that document. And unless you have the time and inclination to compare the contract with my handwriting – none of which I will provide, let me assure you – you can't prove a bloody thing."

"I am the Patron!" Raoul snarled through gritted teeth. "You have no right to arrange how the Opera works!"

Kayla shrugged and turned away. "Neither do you get to control the system," she called over her shoulder. "You should be thankful Carlotta is willing to share the position with Christine."

"I have influence!" Raoul yelled after her. "I could have you removed! Do you honestly think they will side with a woman, a mere member of the set crew, over the Patron?"

Facing him, Kayla walked backwards down the hall, holding up her arms. "Bring it on," she sneered. "I will fight you, and trust me, Vicomte; I hit like a Canadian girl, and it will hurt. If this is how you treat girls, I hope you're upfront with Christine. You most definitely do not deserve her."

The Vicomte stopped short, staring at her in shock. Not trusting her luck, Kayla whisked around a corner and ran, an endeavour which was difficult – but not impossible – in a skirt.

Slowing down, she felt her face relaxing into a grin as she stepped onto the safe haven of the stage. All the teenage boys were piled on the floor like puppies, while the men sat cross-legged next to the heap. As Kayla's boot heels clacked on the boards, Jamie's head popped up from the centre of the mountain. "Abbots is back!" he cheered.

All the boys popped up, looking like a colony of meerkat sentries. "It's about damn time," Dennis mumbled, squinting tiredly at her. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Respect to the lady!" Clemens snarled, shoving Dennis off the mountain of bodies and onto the floor.

"GACK!" Dennis yelped, hitting the ground with a thud. "It was a simple question!" he protested.

"Calm down, boys," Kayla admonished with a grin. "One pissed off lad is enough for one day, and the Vicomte has already filled that position."

Clemens and Dennis shot each other a look that screamed, "_Truce_". "What would the patron have against you?" Clemens asked.

"Because, at the managers' insistence, I convinced Carlotta to come back," Kayla answered lightly.

"Or because your hair is nicer than his," Jamie grinned. "It's the only logical explanation."

"So you convinced out little Italian to return," Claude guffawed. "I think congratulations are in order."

Kayla smiled and shrugged. "Where is everyone?" she asked next.

"There was no arranged rehearsal," Jamie explained, beginning to pull the other boys up to their feet. "The managers were running around like crazed rabbits, so we just came down here and made sure everything was set up for tonight. Then we sat around, and then you showed up."

Kayla considered this for a moment. "I'm going to change out of this blasted skirt," she decided. "And when I come back, we are going to the kitchen because I could kill for food right now."

"Why don't we just bring some food here?" Xavier suggested. "Then there'll be stuff to eat when you come back."

"Great!" Kayla agreed. "But we'll just have to make sure there's no trace of it on the stage or in the wings; we don't want to make a mess right before the performance."

"Don't worry lass, I will keep 'em in line," Claude promised cheerfully.

Grinning fondly at her boys, Kayla left and walked back to the dorms. Waltzing up the stairs, she pushed open the door. As she moved through the maze of beds to her own cot, she removed her cloak, and upon reaching her bed she knelt down and unlocked her trunk. Opening the heavy wooden lid, she stared, unseeing, at the contents. _What was Raoul so pissed about_? She wondered as she tossed her phone carelessly onto her cot and folded up her blue cloak. Exchanging it for her pants, she shimmied out of her skirt and into the pants with a feeling of relief. Gently laying the skirt down in the box, she took a quick glance around the room. Mercifully, it was empty. As fast as she could, she slipped the dove grey blouse over her head, switched into her sport bra, and pulled on a work shirt. This particular garment happened to be a deep maroon; _just like Buquet's_, she realized with a jolt. Buttoning up the shirt as fast as she could, she was filled with a surge of relief when her torso was covered up again. Leaving the vest abandoned inside the box, she shut and locked her trunk, snatched her phone off the bed, and sauntered out of the dorm.

Dancing down the stairs, she glided through the wings and back onto the stage. The crew had barely moved, but as she approached, Jamie, Clemens, and Dennis shot out from the opposite wings, arms piled high with food. "Right on schedule!" she laughed as she waltzed forward.

Germaine had procured a clean sheet from somewhere, and spread it out over the floor of the stage. The three teens set the snacks down and dropped to the floor. This action was immediately copied by the rest of the crew. Kayla hesitated for a millisecond before lowering herself to sit between Jamie and Baptiste. There was a bowl of shiny rosy apples, clusters of carrots, and a bowl of roasted potato slices. There were two piles of sliced up bread, and a small tray of soft yellow butter. And then Kayla saw the plate of…

"PASTRIES!" she shrieked, snatching up a croissant and taking a bite. It was glorious. The men stared at her in amusement. "What?" she demanded through a mouthful of pastry. "I like to eat, is that such a crime?"

"She does have a day and a half of consumption to make up for," Jamie snickered, nudging her shoulder.

"Shut up, Blanchard," Kayla laughed, shoving him in retaliation.

They ate in a comfortable silence. After about ten minutes, Claude spoke up. "What will be the plan for tonight, Abbots?" he asked.

Kayla swallowed the last bite of an apple. "So just to be clear, no one's talked to the managers?" she inquired. Her question was met with shaking heads. "Me neither," she sighed. Frowning up at the ceiling, she ran through some mental solutions. "I don't really want to go through a rehearsal, especially without the actors' cues and such," she stated. "The stage is already perfectly set up for the first scene, and the less we have to move, the better…"

"We already know this opera off by heart," Dennis pointed out.

"Right," Kayla agreed. "But that does not mean that if the managers decide that we're rehearsing, we get to slack off. It would be incredibly stupid to be overconfident."

"You could end up hanging from the rafters," Xavier deadpanned. Kayla, who felt like Buquet's death was years ago, laughed without a second thought. After a couple seconds, however, she stopped, feeling desperately guilty for finding someone's death amusing.

"I'd prefer _not_ to lose any more of my crew members," Kayla returned solemnly. "So if you could not piss off the Opera Ghost, that'd be great."

"Okay, lads, hands on your hearts," Jamie exclaimed, obeying his own order. "I do solemnly swear as a member of Abbot's set crew to not behave in any way which would drive the Opera Ghost to hang us off the rafters – or any other part of the Opera House, for that matter – and I do solemnly vow, that if the Opera Ghost decides that I must die, to not perish in a way which will interfere with a performance, so help me God."

The entire crew echoed the oath with twinkling eyes and smirking lips.

Kayla laughed and raised her right hand, placing her left on floorboards. "I accept your pledge, and I, Kayla Delaine Abbots, do solemnly promise on the Opera Populaire and all it represents to not piss off the Opera Ghost, managers, or patron in any way which results in termination of my employment or being strung up like a Christmas decoration," she vowed.

"So help you God," the crew chorused.

"So help me God," Kayla repeated, hoping with all her heart she could keep her promise.

* * *

**Author's Note: To everyone who has followed, favourited, or reviewed, thank you! Especial thanks to Samantha, E-man-dy-S, Guest, and Guest, who I was unable to thank through personal message. And thank you to everyone who has read this far. **

**Please feel free to PM or review with questions, comments, critiques, or Elysian peace ideas. I love you all, and Merry Christmas!**

**Tierney **


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Note: Santa didn't pull through. Still don't own Phantom of the Opera. "Pompeii" belongs to the infinitely talented Bastille. **

* * *

24

"Well, now that we've all promised not to die," Germaine began amusedly. "What now?"

"I am going to eat this piece of bread," Kayla declared dramatically, snatching a slice of sourdough and smearing butter over it.

"Oh, I know!" Clemens yelped, slamming the floor with his palm. "Let's play Coward! I'll be referee this time!"

Loud cheering met his pronouncement. "Oh, is this like Truth or Dare?" Kayla clarified.

"Explain Truth or Dare," Leo requested. "Is that a game you play in Canada?"

"Someone gets asked 'truth or dare', and if they pick truth, they have to answer a personal question, and if they pick dare, they have to perform a task," Kayla explained.

"It's exactly the same, except for the questions. Questions are for wussies," Jamie chortled.

"I'll start! I'll start!" Xavier shouted, sitting up and bouncing on his heels.

"Who would like to issue the first challenge?" Clemens grinned, looking expectantly at the group.

"I will," Claude volunteered. "I want you, Xavier, to go a fetch Madame Giry's staff."

"Her cane?" Xavier asked, his eyes widening.

"Yes," Claude smirked. "I believe she's in a private rehearsal at the moment, so you'll have an audience. I give you five minutes to find and retrieve the object. Off you trot, laddie!"

Xavier's face went completely white, prominently displaying his marvelous black eye, but he gamely stood and bolted off the stage.

"Am I the only one who thinks Xavier just got handed a death sentence?" Kayla queried.

"Not at all," Dennis interjected with a wide yawn. "This is just a warm-up."

"Stealing Madame Giry's cane is a challenge usually issued about once a game," Marius added, leaning forward and grinning at Kayla.

"I was challenged to retrieve one of her hairpins once," Jamie commented proudly.

"And did you?" Kayla chuckled, reaching out for a second apple.

"Of course he did!" Germaine exclaimed, smiling approvingly at the younger man. "He got away with two, in fact."

"But Madame Giry likes him," Antonio protested from where he was sprawled out on the floor. This was the first time Kayla had heard him speak, and she noted that he had a slight Italian accent. "I'd bet it wasn't too difficult."

"You try getting through a room of ballerinas without being the recipient of unwanted attention," Jamie snickered, straightening his shirt collar smugly.

"Flirting? Oh, you poor soul; how you must have suffered," Marius cooed sarcastically.

"You and Xavier," Gaston shook his head. "Madame Giry approves of you or something, cause neither of you have much trouble getting the cane."

"I'm a likable guy, what can I say?" Jamie smirked.

"Who's timing Xavier?" Claude barked. "I have a watch, but I don't know when he left."

"It's been two minutes," Clemens replied, glancing at his own timepiece.

Thirty seconds later, Xavier marched triumphantly out of the wings, holding the contraband above his head.

"What did I tell you?" Antonio groaned, slumping to the floor again. "Too easy."

"Okay, next challenged!" Clemens called as Xavier reverently placed the cane on the ground and sat down.

"Me!" Gaston volunteered, waving his arm in the air.

"Challenger?" Clemens asked next.

"I will," Leo offered. Turning to Gaston, he demanded, "Return the cane to Madame Giry."

Gaston moaned, but straightened hopefully and glanced at Xavier. "And Xavier's not allowed to tell you where they are!" Leo amended hurriedly.

Gaston swore, snatched up the cane, and stormed off. "Madame Giry doesn't really like Gaston," Jamie muttered to Kayla. "He's gonna get an earful."

"No reason for him to be a bad sport though," Leo pointed out good naturedly.

"Xavier, follow him and make sure he actually returns it," Clemens requested. Xavier saluted and hurried away.

It took ten minutes for Gaston to return, empty handed, with Xavier smirking behind him. Gaston sank to the floor and snatched up a piece of chicken. "Congratulations, Gaston," Clemens grinned. "You are not a Coward."

"He would gotten away clean," Xavier snickered. "Except for the fact that he started flirting with Gaelle Leroux the minute he got through the door."

"The other prima ballerina?" Rene exclaimed. "I would have paid to see that!"

"Madame Giry was not amused," Xavier concluded, his hazel eyes twinkling.

"When you're all quite finished," Gaston snapped through a mouthful of meat. "I challenge Claude."

Claude straightened, cracking his knuckles. "What's my task, laddie?"

"Hang over the edge of the third balcony and pull yourself up ten times," Gaston declared.

The fifty-year-old shrugged and stood, walking determinedly towards the stars.

"Chin ups?" Kayla questioned skeptically.

"From off the third balcony," Jamie emphasized, watching Claude's ascent with a smirk playing about his mouth. "This'll be interesting; we've never tried this one before."

The crowd craned their necks back to watch Claude, who was moving steadily up the stairs and onto the balcony. Swinging himself over the railing, Claude gripped the wooden beams tightly. He let himself drop, his weight supported purely by his arms. The rest of the crew started counting as Claude began to lift himself up, thick muscles straining. Claude reached twenty before he hauled himself back onto the wooden slats and headed for the stairs, his fists raised in triumph. All the stagehands applauded. "All right, who's next?" Clemens shouted gleefully.

"I'll challenge Jamie," Kayla ventured.

Clemens grinned as Germaine clapped Jamie on the back. The other teens started whooping. "Do you accept?" Clemens inquired mockingly. Jamie nodded, a feral smile lighting up his features.

"Okay," Kayla began, clapping her hands together. "I want you, my friend, to flirt with a girl."

Jamie threw back his head and laughed. "Call that a challenge?"

Kayla nodded her head vehemently. "Yep. Because you are going to doing exactly what I tell you, and you are going to be using a pick-up line."

Jamie frowned, thrown off. "What's a pick-up line?"

"It's a cliché sort of phrase that guys back home often use when trying to 'pick up', or flirt with, girls," Kayla chuckled. "And if this is going to work, you are going to have to do _exactly_ what I say."

And that is how Kayla and Jamie came to be leaning faux-casually against one of the round walls of the lobby, watching cast members scurry through on unknown business. It was just after half past two, so the doors were still barred against the public. All of the teenage stagehands, plus Germaine and Claude, were scattered on the level above, leaning over the railings and arches to observe the spectacle.

"Okay, you know what to do?" Kayla muttered as her dark blue eyes spotted Christine and Meg approaching from across the foyer.

Jamie looked slightly concerned that his target had back-up, but he smiled gamely and nodded.

"Off we go, then," Kayla snickered.

Walking side by side, she and Jamie strolled towards the two approaching dancers. Meg and Christine, engaged in their own conversation, did not notice. As they drew nearer, Jamie slipped and fell, landing on his back as his feet flew out from under him. There was a loud thump, and a collective gasp rose from the stagehands above. Meg and Christine started at the sudden noise, whipping to face Jamie and Kayla with looks of horror. Schooling her features into what she hoped was a mask of shock and concern, Kayla willed herself not to laugh.

"Oh my goodness, are you hurt?" Meg shrieked, hurrying forward. Christine followed her best friend, her doe eyes wide and frightened.

Jamie popped up into a sitting position, a pained look in his dark brown eyes the only indicator that his wipe out had actually hurt him. Supporting himself on one knee, he placed one hand on his heart and shot Meg a dazzling smile. "I'm sorry," he exclaimed brightly. "But I just fell for you."

Meg stared at the stagehand in stunned silence for a moment before her creamy skin flushed bright red. Grabbing Christine's arm, she dragged her friend away, holding one hand over her face in disbelief. But Kayla could tell the ballerina was smiling, holding back hysterical giggles.

Jamie forced himself to his feet and watched the two girls' retreat with a look of satisfaction. "Do you have any other lines that work that well?" the brunette stage-hand inquired.

"Perhaps," Kayla smirked. "Bravo, my young apprentice."

On the floor above, the spectating crew burst into applause. Kayla watched Meg and Christine scurry on, stopping in one of the halls to talk to Madame Giry. Blushing ruby red, Meg appeared to speak rapid-fire, gesturing towards Kayla and Jamie. The ballet mistress frowned and turned to face the two crew members, her eyes narrowing. Kayla and Jamie blanched, and without a word, they bolted.

Dashing up the stairs, they sprinted past the other crew members, who quickly followed. Together they sprinted all the way back to the stage. The older men watched their arrival, entertained. "Well done, laddie," Claude praised.

"That was beautiful!" Clemens howled, dropping to the floor. "Did you see her face?!"

Kayla smiled modestly as Germaine told the older stagehands what a success the challenge had been. "I'm going to have to try that again," Jamie declared proudly.

More dares were issued. Rene dared Baptiste to dance ballet, and, much to Kayla's amusement, the fourteen year old actually was not bad. "Join the cavaliers!" Dennis suggested, only half-joking. In retaliation, Baptiste dared challenged Rene to run and find out what colour cravat Maestro Reyer was wearing, with Marius accompanying him to keep him honest. As Maestro Reyer kept the locations of his private orchestral rehearsals very secret, this task took a fair bit of time to complete. But after twenty minutes, Rene and Marius did return, and Marius confirmed that Rene's answer – green – was indeed correct. Henri then challenged Germaine to dance a hornpipe, which he did to loud applause. Dennis then dared Kayla to descend into the storage area below the back stage, nicknamed "Hell" for its terrifying darkness and ghoulish props. Tasked with finding a bottle of rum that Bernard and Claude had stashed there in the beginning of September, Kayla willingly entered the gloomy basement, with Jamie's accompaniment for moral support. The only light came from a small weak gas lamp, and beyond the reach of the small flame, the room was pitch black. Through sense of touch almost exclusively, Kayla eventually found the glass flask hidden inside the mouth of an extremely large dragon head. Prize in hand, Kayla and Jamie scampered out of the basement as fast as their legs would carry them. She tossed the rum to Bernard as she collapsed back onto her place by the pile of food, silently vowing to never again return to that particular area of the Opera House if she could help it.

Xavier, almost as some twisted form of revenge, dared Jean to ask Christine to dinner. Jean returned ten minutes later, grinning like a lunatic, with a bright red handprint accompanying his black eye. "Meg Giry slapped me," he informed them as he sat back down. "And Christine didn't seem to know what to do." He was still beaming.

"I think she's engaged," Kayla mentioned slyly. Jean, Gaston, Dennis, Antonio, and Leo all visibly deflated. _Ladies and gentlemen, Team Daäe_, Kayla thought. "But I don't know if it's serious," she added. All five brightened.

"Well, he completed the challenge," Clemens declared. "He's not a coward, that's for damn sure," he added, nudging Jean roughly with his shoulder.

"Oh! Oh!" Jamie yelped. "I've got one! I'm challenging Abbots!"

Kayla leaned forward and bared her teeth at Jamie. "Bring it on!" she crowed.

"Sing."

She stared at him blankly. "What?"

"Sing for us," Jamie smirked. "Stand up and sing." He gestured to the front of the stage.

"Why _on earth_ would you want me to sing?" Kayla demanded. "And what the hell _would_ I sing?"

"A song, of course!" Marius exclaimed cheekily.

Jamie shrugged. "Something you like," he suggested. "Something we might not have heard before."

Those were fairly easy qualifications, but Kayla was slightly paralyzed. Who was she to sing on the stage of the Opera Populaire? Granted, she already had yesterday morning, but not for an actual audience.

"Or are you a coward?" Jamie teased.

That settled it.

"I'll sing," Kayla snapped. "Just give me a minute to get myself sorted."

"Let's clean up the lunch mess," Germaine decided, casting a satisfied glance over the few bits of food that remained. "And then we'll come back and watch Abbots complete her challenge."

There were murmurs of agreement to the plan, and everyone started helping; the seniors stood an gathered up empty plates, while the juniors busied themselves with stuffing their mouths full of whatever had not yet been eaten. Kayla contributed to this, vengefully snatching a piece of bread right out of Jamie's hand and cramming it into her mouth. The carrots he picked up met the same fate. The chestnut haired stagehand glared at her. "You force me to sing, I eat your food," Kayla commented saucily. "That's how the system works."

In no time at all, all the food was polished off, and the crew began to ferry plates and utensils back down to the kitchen. Kayla perched nervously on the end of the Il Muto bed and waited, mentally running through her selection, silently reciting the beats and lyrics she knew off by heart. She almost wished she had chosen to sing right away, just to get it over with; the anticipation was, as Firmin would put it, "doing nothing for her nerves". When the stage was completely cleaned up from their impromptu picnic, the crew hopped off the stage into the orchestra pit, then clambered up into the auditorium. They all sat in the front row, seeming strangely at home in the gilded velvet seats. Jamie leaned on his elbows on his knees and stared at her expectantly.

"This feels more like a performance than a challenge," Kayla squeaked nervously.

"You don't have to sing an opera, lassie!" Claude encouraged, settling comfortably into his chair.

"Just a song!" Jamie added. Clemens smacked him in the back of the head, and the teen lurched forward, spluttering indignantly.

Pleased with the reception of his blow, Clemens leaned back and grinned. "Whenever you're ready, Abbots," the redhead announced simply.

Kayla stood and paced toward the centre of the stage. She felt her phone resting in her pocket, and fleetingly wished for musical accompaniment. Unfortunately, music originating from a mysterious source would be incredibly difficult to explain to her coworkers. Calming herself with a few deep breaths, the opening chords began to play in her mind.

"_I was left to my own devices_

_Many days fell away with nothing to show _

_And the walls kept tumbling down_

_In the city that we love_

_Great clouds roll over the hills_

_Bringing darkness from above…_"

She tapped out the beat softly on her leg, hoping she was in tune.

"_But if you close your eyes,_

_Does it almost feel like_

_Nothing changed at all?_

_And if you close your eyes,_

_Does it almost feel like_

_You've been here before?_

_How am I gonna be an optimist about this?_

_How am I gonna be an optimist about this?"_

This was actually kind of fun, she realized. She was singing one of her favourite songs, with a group of new friends, and for the moment she had not been booed off the stage; so far so good. Kayla's gaze drifted unconsciously to Box Five, and she hoped neither of its regular occupants was present.

"_We were caught up and lost in all of our vices_

_In your pose as the dust settled around us_

_And the walls kept tumbling down_

_In the city that we love_

_Great clouds roll over the hills_

_Bringing darkness from above…_

_But if you close your eyes,_

_Does it almost feel like_

_Nothing changed at all?_

_And if you close your eyes,_

_Does it almost feel like_

_You've been here before?_

_How am I gonna be an optimist about this?_

_How am I gonna be an optimist about this?_"

Kayla grinned. She loved this song. Walking closer to the front of the stage, she flipped her braid back over her shoulder.

"_Oh where do we begin?_

_The rubble or our sins?_

_Oh, oh where do we begin?_

_The rubble or our sins?_

_And the walls kept tumbling down _

_In the city that we love _

_Great clouds roll over the hills _

_Bringing darkness from above…"_

Kayla bounced up and down and beamed at the crew. Laughing, she struck a pose and began to dance.

"_But if you close your eyes,_

_Does it almost feel like_

_Nothing changed at all?_

_And if you close your eyes,_

_Does it almost feel like_

_You've been here before?_

_How am I gonna be an optimist about this?_

_How am I gonna be an optimist about this?_

_If you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?_"

She slowed and stopped, continuing to sing softly as the music in her mind began to wind down.

"_Eh-eh-o eh-o, eh-eh-o eh-o, eh-eh-o eh-o, eh-eh-o eh-o _

_Eh-eh-o eh-o, eh-eh-o eh-o, eh-eh-o eh-o, eh-eh-o eh-o._"

The rest of the crew burst into applause, hooting and cheering proudly as Kayla bowed bashfully. It was strange, Kayla pondered as the crew began to climb back onto the stage, that she had never had any real skill sets in performing. And yet here she was, singing onstage for a group of men she had essentially just met.

"Abbots!" Marius yelped as he crawled back up from the orchestra pit. "Why didn't you tell us you could sing? Sacre bleu, we could have replaced Christine a while ago!"

"Agreed!" Xavier exclaimed loudly, ignoring the death glare which Jean bestowed upon him.

"She doesn't really have an operatic voice, though," Jamie commented thoughtfully. "It's nice, obviously," he added lazily as his fellows swivelled to glare at him. "But it's more smooth and rich that either Carlotta or Daäe. She's not a soprano."

"Still, the managers ought to be told," Germaine interjected, laughing.

"Three divas, could you imagine?" Claude chuckled.

"I'm not singing with Carlotta or Christine!" Kayla protested. "I am in no fit state to compete with either of them, and I don't want to start a world war, thank you very much."

"A world war?" Henri boomed. "Don't be ridiculous!"

Kayla blinked, but decided to abstain from any further historical comments.

Germaine pulled a battered pocket watch out of the pocket of his vest and flipped it open. "Quarter to four," he announced after a look at the silver hands.

"Why?" Dennis moaned, dropping to his knees dramatically and banging his forehead against the floor. "There are still hours to go until the show!"

"Man up!" Kayla barked. "We'll find something to do."

* * *

**Author's Note: So, first off, apologies. Christmas was crazy, with lots of family drama juggling to do, so there's that. Then my mom, my little sister, and I got super sick, so that screwed up our holiday for a couple days. And I've been working. So yeah, this one's pretty late. But one of my New Year's resolutions is to keep this story going, so I will try my best not to be late in the future. **

**To all the readers, reviewers, favouriters (that's not a word, but whatever), and followers, thank you all for the support, you're the best. To Samantha, Guest, E-man-dy-S, and Katie, my guest reviewers, thank you as well. Love you all. **

**This one was pretty fluffy, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. I've only got a couple more pre-written chapters to go, so I'm going to have to start writing like crazy. Anyway, thanks for reading this far, and review or PM with any questions, comments, or critiques! **

**Thanks, and Happy New Year!**

**Tierney **


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Note: Still do not own the Phantom of the Opera. It should not come as a surprise. **

* * *

25

And thus they muddled through the next two hours, continuing their game of Coward, putting finishing touches on the set, and making sure all the pieces for the rest of the opera were in their proper positions, ready to be moved. Upon the completion of that task, they played tag on the balconies. At five 'o' clock, they went down to the dining hall for supper. The cast and crew were already assembled, most of them only half-heartedly picking at the meat and vegetables on their plates. The set crew was by far the most jovial group, eating with gusto and carrying on a lively, lighthearted conversation. Kayla could tell that the cast was especially nervous, and she tried to ignore the unsettling weight of solemn worry that covered the room. After a while, the boys began pestering Kayla to finish reciting _The Importance of Being Earnest_. "Where did I leave off this morning?" she inquired, smiling.

"The urn and the cigar," Baptiste exclaimed triumphantly.

Picking up where she left off, Kayla continued to tell the story. She had just reached the part where Gwendolen arrives at the estate when a voice interrupted. "Terribly sorry to interrupt," the voice chuckled lightly. "But could we join you?" Kayla looked up to see two tall, handsome men looming over her. The one who had spoken reminded Kayla of Raoul, tanned, with gleaming grey eyes and chin-length honey coloured hair tied back with a black ribbon. The second was olive skinned and had curly, short black hair and laughing brown eyes. They were both lean and muscled, and about six feet tall by Kayla's estimation. "I'm Avère Beaumont," the first speaker added.

"And I am Leonardo Gradin," the dark haired man contributed with a sweeping bow.

Kayla grinned. "You will find no opposition from me," she joked. "It's my crew you'll have to worry about."

"Oh! Of course!" Avère exclaimed. "You are Mademoiselle Abbots!"

"I see I have a reputation," Kayla snickered.

"Avère and Leonardo are the lead dancers for the cavaliers," Clemens interrupted, with a tense smile for the two men. The other members of what Kayla privately suspected to be Team Abbots straightened in their seats.

"Objections, anyone?" Kayla inquired. When there was no negative response, Kayla grinned up at the two dancers. "Welcome to the table!" she cried dramatically, and the two dancers sat down.

The laughter of the crew became so contagious and loud that the rest of the male dancers abandoned their table to join the set crew. There were only fifteen cavaliers as opposed to the thirty ballerinas. The female members of the ballet corps shot the table strange looks as the male dancers slid onto the empty benches alongside the set crew. The five youngest – adolescents – were thin and wiry, and watched Kayla closely, with small smiles lurking out of sight in their cheeks. The eight seniors, plus the two leads, did not even make an attempt to hide their amusement, laughing uproariously along with the rest of the men. Kayla found the reception quite gratifying.

Around six 'o' clock, the empty plates of the set crew and cavaliers ensured that they were entirely engrossed in Kayla's recital. "Jack immediately embraced Gwendolen, while Ms. Prism and the Vicar, and Algernon and Cecily also joined their partners in celebration. Meanwhile, Lady Bracknell picked up the burgundy volume that lay abandoned on the floor. Flipping rapidly through the pages, she stared at the entry detailing Jack's father. It read, _General John Moncrieff_." Her audience silenced, sneaking confused glances at each other. Kayla giggled and continued her narrative, taking on the severe British tone of the character. "'My nephew, you seem to be displaying signs of triviality,' Lady Bracknell stated in a steely tone. 'On the contrary, Aunt Augusta,' Jack replied, smirking as he wrapped an arm around his fiancé's waist. 'I've now realised for the first time in my life the vital importance of being Earnest.'"

It took a couple of seconds for the word play to sink in. Suddenly, it hit the table like a ton of bricks. "Oh damn!" Jamie choked, and the whole table lost it.

As they laughed, the hall door flew open with a bang. "Kayla!" Madame Giry barked as she swept into the room, her billowing black skirts trailing her like storm clouds. "The managers would like a word. Now."

Kayla hurriedly shoved a piece of baguette into her mouth as she clambered off the bench. "I want all of you lot in the wings at seven 'o' clock at the absolute latest, do I make myself clear?" she addressed the set crew seriously.

"Yes sir!" they chorused with respectful yet playful grins. Kayla waved and followed the ballet mistress out into the hallway.

"May I inquire as to why my presence has been requested?" Kayla asked, following Madame Giry up a narrow flight of stairs.

"La Carlotta and Ms. Daäe have… a disagreement," Madame Giry explained delicately, striding imperiously down the corridor. "They are unsure as to who will be playing the Countess for this evening's performance. Both are quite upset about the whole situation. The Vicomte seems to think Christine should take the role, and the managers do not feel it wise to take a side. They would like a second opinion."

"Or they just want me to solve their problems for them," Kayla muttered, shaking her head. "They want me to talk Carlotta off the ledge."

The ballet mistress grimaced. "You seem to be the only one in the situation who will not have preferential treatment between the two divas," Madame Giry sighed, turning sharply down the next hall. "Heaven knows the Vicomte cannot mediate the situation."

"I'll drink to that," Kayla agreed.

Madame Giry drew to a stop outside the door of the managers' office. "They're expecting you," she indicated reassuringly.

Kayla rapped smartly on the wood, waited three seconds, and opened the door. "Gentlemen, ladies," she greeted as she breezed into the office. "How may I be of service?"

Firmin and Andre were standing by the window, sharply attired in suits. They both turned as Kayla entered, relief splashed across their faces. Raoul stood rigidly by Andre's desk, a scowl plastered on his handsome face. Christine stood next to him demurely, wide-eyed and wringing her hands. Carlotta, stunning in her bright red gown, had her arms crossed furiously over her chest. "There you are!" the prima donna cried as she spotted Kayla. "The precious patron says Daäe should play the Countess tonight!"

"If not Mademoiselle Daäe, then whom would take the role? You?" Raoul snarled.

"Whoa, calm down girls; you're both pretty," Kayla snapped sarcastically, raising a silencing hand at both of them. Schooling her features into a mask of warm professionalism, she turned to the managers. "Now, what seems to be the problem?"

"The seating starts in two hours, the performance starts thirty minutes after seating," Firmin blustered. "And we are no closer to deciding who will be playing the role of the Countess!"

"Carlotta had the role last night, why wouldn't Christine play the part?" Raoul demanded, his brows furrowed.

"I was onstage for barely five minutes!" Carlotta shrieked. "That hardly counts as a performance!"

"Hey now," Kayla interjected mildly, putting her hands on her hips. "Both of you were technically in the role last night, so there's no need for yelling. Also, someone died last night, is this really the biggest concern?"

"If you are talking about the Opera Ghost, there's no such thing," Raoul interrupted.

"And who are you, a ghost expert?" Kayla shot back. "That's not important. What is important is a) we figure out who is leading tonight, and b) perhaps Christine can advocate for herself."

"That is why we called you in, Ms. Abbots," Andre added. "We feel an external judge would be best, and neither lady wishes to back down from performing this evening."

"So neither of you wants to be gracious and let the other woman lead?" Kayla asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Of course not!" Carlotta replied indignantly. Christine did not speak, but shook her head firmly.

"Right," Kayla sighed. "Does anyone have a franc I could borrow?"

Andre nodded and moved to his desk. Sliding open a small drawer, he removed a single coin and held it out to Kayla. Wrapping her fingers around the bronze coloured metal circle, she stepped between Carlotta and Christine. "Now, this particular method is simple, and next time you can just to this and not call me in to referee your fights. Mademoiselle Daäe: heads or tails?"

"Tails," Christine stated softly.

"Okay, if the coin lands tails up, it goes to Ms. Daäe, heads up and the role goes to Signora Giudicelli," Kayla outlined quickly. With a quick snap of her thumb, the coin shot into the air, the metal gleaming in the light of the gas lamps. As it twisted down, Kayla reached up and slapped the coin down onto the top of her hand. Uncovering the face of the franc, she glanced down at the result. "Tails," she announced. "Ms. Daäe gets the part."

Carlotta's mouth opened to protest but Kayla quickly cut in. "Nope, you're not starting this again," Kayla said severely, hoping to stave off another argument. "The contract still stands; you'll get the role tomorrow. Correct?" she clarified. The managers nodded in agreement.

"Would you like to take a different role this evening, signora?" Firmin offered timidly.

The prima donna drew herself up regally. "I shall take the role of the page boy," she declared loftily. "It is my duty. Congratulations, Ms. Daäe," she added grudgingly as she quickly left the room.

"Well, if that's all I was needed for, I am going to go help with the costumes and makeup," Kayla stated tiredly, tossing the coin back to Andre. "Until later, monsieurs, mademoiselle, Vicomte."

"Be careful, Kayla," Andre warned worriedly.

"I'm the Queen of Careful," Kayla assured jokingly. "No one's going to die on my watch, not tonight."

Carlotta was waiting for Kayla outside the door. "Can you believe the nerve of him?" Carlotta seethed, gesturing angrily at the closed door. "I was humiliated last night and yet he fights for her still, so she can take all the glory!"

"I know," Kayla stated flatly, sending an annoyed glance of her own at the man in question, shielded behind the wooden door. "Didn't he sign the agreement?"

"Of course!" Carlotta exclaimed incredulously, beginning to walk with Kayla down the corridor. "They all did. The Vicomte, the managers, even Daäe!"

"Well, my apologies," Kayla chuckled dryly. "It appears the battle is just begun."

"No, no, no," Carlotta snapped. "If I have signed the contract and they have all agreed, I will hold them to dis if it kills me."

"Not to be morbid, Carlotta," Kayla interjected. "But having the contract kill you might just be the solution to all the Vicomte's problems."

Carlotta cackled. "Comments like that are the reason we are allies," she declared resolutely. "I will not let the precious patron drive me out."

"Just keep to your end of the bargain and the Vicomte may have less of a reason to fight you," Kayla advised with a smirk. The two women strolled down the hall, Carlotta's four inch heels clicking on the tiled floor.

"I am going to the dressing room," Carlotta decided, tipping her head towards the next turn. Kayla nodded and followed, turning the corner with the indignant diva. "I might as well get ready before the ballet rat takes over my space," Carlotta explained sullenly.

Kayla rolled her eyes. "I fail to believe that in an opera house this size there isn't another dressing room as nice as or nicer than that one," she remarked, sticking her hand into the pocket of her pants and checking that her iPhone was safely enclosed as they sauntered further.

Carlotta's ruby lips curled. "There is a dressing room for the second soprano," she admitted. "And a large one for the female actors and chorus, but again, it is a matter of principle. It is the sacred space of the prima donna. To give that _puttana_ the dressing room now would be equivalent to telling her that she can have my position!"

"You're sharing the position," Kayla reminded her sternly. "And I'd say you either share it, let her have it and make the second soprano dressing room the envy of the Populaire, or offer her the second soprano room."

Shaking her head, Carlotta snorted. "What has happened to me, that I am willing to consider the advice of a little girl?" she drawled.

"I happened!" Kayla proclaimed, raising her arms victoriously in the air. "And by the way, I ain't a little girl – I'm twenty – but thank you for the backhanded compliment."

The two women walked on in silence until they reached the polished mahogany door of the prima donna room. "This'll be different, won't it?" Kayla smirked as Carlotta turned the key to let herself in. "You won't be wearing as much makeup, and you'll be wearing pants. And you'll be a boy. A very pretty boy, granted, but a boy nonetheless."

"Shut up, Kayla," Carlotta snarled good-naturedly. She slammed the door behind her as Kayla started to laugh.

* * *

**Author's Note: Apologies for this being so late, to say I'm mentally drained would be an understatement. Last previously written chapter. Going to have to write like mad now. To my readers, reviewers, favouriters (shh, I know that's not a word, just go with it), and followers, thank you all. And to guest, Guest, Samantha, and E-man-dy-S, thank you guys for your reviews too. **

**School's starting up Monday, but I'll try my best to stil be on time with updates.**

**Thanks all!**

**Tierney **


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Note: Still do not own Phantom of the Opera; that right belongs to Leroux, Webber, and other such parties. **

* * *

26

"Kayla! Kayla! Kayla!"

Kayla had been alone in the costuming and makeup room for only about five minutes, and was in the middle of setting up a spectrum of makeup brushes and cosmetics when she heard the door creak open. Without any prior warning besides the high-pitched shrieks, Kayla found herself completely surrounded and clung to by fifteen preteen ballets rats. "Bonjour," she greeted, her voice muffled – the side effects of becoming the centre of an impromptu group hug.

"Do you think it's going to happen again? Do you think something bad is going to happen?" a dancer Kayla could not see squeaked.

There was immediate flurry of agreements and panic before Kayla intervened. "Ladies, calm yourselves," she ordered gently. The grips of the small arms loosened slightly, and Kayla was able to raise her head and look around at the frightened adolescents. "Everything is going to be just fine," she assured them calmly. "I am going to be frank with you girls because you are all mature young ladies and you will be able to calmly handle what I am going to say. Agreed?" There was a mumbled chorus of assent. "Yes, the Opera Ghost was angry yesterday. Ms. Daäe is playing the Countess tonight, which will probably appease him somewhat. Accidents happen when people pry into affairs that are not their own, which Monsieur Buquet learned last night. Don't go looking for ghosts, avoid wandering off alone, and focus on your work. Keep dancing as well as I know you all shall and you will all be perfectly fine."

"How do you know?" Lena stammered. Her fourteen fellows stared at Kayla expectantly.

Kayla took a deep breath. "Because I am going to do everything in my power to make sure nothing happens to you girls." It was odd, Kayla reflected, to act like such a responsible adult in a fandom where a majority of the characters were anything but. Her resolve was strengthened by the chilling thought that most of these girls were the same age or younger than her sister Samantha, and though she was sure the Phantom was not cruel enough to kill a child, Kayla did not want there to be any risk of harm to these little ballerinas.

There was a moment of contemplative silence. "Can you tell us the rest of the story now?" a small voice requested.

There was a collective glare sent to the little redhead who had made the appeal. "Sacre bleu, Amelia!" Lena groaned.

"As if you have a leg to stand on, Lena," Clare, a tall, lanky brunette, admonished sternly.

"Okay, ladies, calm yourselves," Kayla laughed before the bickering could escalate further. "I'm assuming you all need help with your makeup?" The young dancers shuffled, then all nodded abashedly. "Okay, one of you sit," Kayla ordered, patting the stool in front of her. "Let's see how well I can multi-task. As for the rest of you, gather round, because I fear we have left our heroine in a rather precarious situation…"

* * *

"…And so the teapot, the candelabra, and the clock sat on the window sill, staring out at the snowball fight and wondering whether there was something that wasn't there before," Kayla concluded, dusting light rose blush over the bridge of Gwen's nose. "There you go, Gwen, you're done," she addressed the short, black haired dancer, who squeaked a thank you and hopped off the stool.

"Don't you dare stop," Amelia threatened, clambering up to perch in front of Kayla.

"I agree with Amy, keep going," called one of the senior cavaliers from across the room, a tall, rail thin but muscular twenty three year old with emerald eyes and messy bronze hair named Neil.

"I'm still confused as to how a pretty girl and a… wolf-bear-thing… can have a functional romantic relationship, but by all means proceed," Avère approved with a wave of his hand, not taking his grey eyes off the mirror as he expertly applied the deep blue eye shadow his costume required.

"You do realize I'm telling this story primarily for the benefit of fifteen little girls, right?" Kayla snapped teasingly, dipping her fingers into a pot of foundation and smearing it over Amelia's freckled cheeks.

"So if Lumiere – the candlestick," Phillipe, a preppy, hazel haired senior, pondered, "has the hots for the maid – who's technically a feather duster – how does that…"

"There are parts of children's stories that are never and should never be discussed, and that is one of them," Kayla interrupted hastily. She turned her attention back to Amelia's face, smoothing out any clumps of foundation that remained before picking up a brush and starting in on the teal eye shadow. "The bloody seniors distracted me, where was I?"

"There may be something there that wasn't there before!" the ballet rats cheered.

Kayla's lips twitched. "Right."

* * *

"And pure magic swept over the palace walls, turning the slate stone to creamy white. Blossoms bloomed where there had once been nothing but dying vines, colours taking over the gloomy shades. The cracked stones repaired themselves, gargoyles turned to angels, and sunlight burst through the clouds, illuminating everything that had once been purely shadowed. One by one, feather dusters, candelabras, clocks, and china all turned back into people, men and women all gazing with delighted faces at their long-missed human forms. And in the ballroom, surrounded by their newly transformed friends and courtiers, the Beast and Belle shared their first dance as a human couple. As her dress flowed around her like yellow rose petals, Belle reached up and kissed her prince. With her new family watching proudly, Belle was deliriously happy; she had found the adventure that she had been searching for all along."

Kayla tapped the tip of Joelle's pointed nose with the last bit of required blush. Joelle, the last ballet rat who had required makeup, got off the chair in a daze. The young corps stared at Kayla expectantly. "The end," she concluded awkwardly. The ballet rats all sighed dreamily.

"So, moral of the story, ladies; it doesn't matter what he looks like, as long as he's filthy rich with an enormous castle," Avère called cheerfully from where he was stretching his legs in the splits on the floor by the cavaliers' makeup tables.

The dreamy looks instantly faded, and the ballet rats whipped around, wistfulness in their eyes overpowered by pure, unadulterated rage. "SHUT UP AVERE!" all fifteen shrieked as one.

"YEAH, SHUT UP AVERE!" shouted Neil jokingly, glaring at Avère as he helped Nikolais, who at sixteen was one of the youngest senior cavaliers, pin a wreath of leaves to the younger man's blonde locks.

"We dance for a living, I don't think we really have a leg to stand on as far as dream lives go," Leonardo commented, smacking Avère on the back of his golden head as the dark haired soloist walked by.

"GACK! We're not in a fairytale, idiot!" Avère protested as he glared at his abusive co-leader.

"We're a bunch of young Frenchmen dancing ballet for a fairly significant amount of money and the adoration of rich women, I think we _are_ in a fairytale," Alexandre – the youngest of the junior cavaliers– sniffed haughtily, mockingly sticking his pointy nose into the air. The ballet rats – among whom Alexandre, and, more importantly, his older brother Neil, were much in favour – giggled. Alexandre blessed the fifteen little girls with a surprisingly roguish wink, vaguely disturbing in its effectiveness since he was only fourteen.

"Hey, hey, watch it!" Kayla snapped teasingly. "None of that flirting with my girls!"

"You sound exactly like Madame Giry. Our dear ballet mistress would be proud," Avère joked.

"Well someone has to be a positive influence around here!" Kayla retaliated.

"What about Mademoiselle Giry?" Lena interjected quietly.

"Exactly. Her and me, that's all there is between you little rats and those cretins over there," Kayla laughed, waving her hand in the direction of the older cavaliers as she straightened Amelia's sleeve with the other hand.

Avère rose majestically out of the splits, keeping his hands on his hips the whole time, and shouted over at the section of dressing tables where the ballerinas were doing their makeup. "Hear that Meg? You're an excellent role model!"

The door swung open and Madame Giry stepped imposingly into the room. "If you would cease in yelling at the ballerinas, Avère?" she suggested coldly.

"If I must," the blonde man sighed, flashing a conspiring wink at the ballet rats. Three of them began to sway unsteadily, seemingly lightheaded with the thrill of a cavalier's attention. Their compatriots began to poke them teasingly.

"I need the junior ballerinas warming up now, and whichever seniors are ready should join them!" Madame Giry barked. "Gaelle, Meg, go lead the stretches please!"

The black haired, pale Gaelle and rosy cherubic Meg shot out of their chairs, already in full costume and makeup, and swept gracefully out of the room. The ballet rats all swarmed Kayla and hugged her, shrieking thank yous before scurrying in a clumsy swarm after the two prima ballerinas. "They've never been that enthusiastic about anything or anyone," Leonardo stared blankly. "They're hysterical little blighters, but I have never seen them show that much affection to someone out of their ranks before. Are you a witch, Abbots?"

And in that moment Kayla Abbots was crowned honorary Queen of the Ballet Rats.

* * *

Much to the dismay of the Populaire's entire staff, the second performance of Il Muto went off without a hitch. Carlotta, her ample chest bound flat and her face cleared of her traditional stage makeup, played a strangely alluring interpretation of Serafimo, while Christine's Countess was the perfect portrayal of the naïve, love-struck, and foolish noblewoman Daäe's fans had expected. Kayla was privately of the opinion that the superficial, over-the-top, and surprisingly sinister predator Carlotta performed to be better suited to the character, but judging by the thunderous applause bestowed upon the cast as they took their bows, the audience had no complaints.

The older dancers were passing around their green flasks again, but Kayla was too exhausted to attempt to halt the behaviour. Upon climbing down from the catwalk, she gathered up the crew and informed them that they were to meet backstage by the office before breakfast at nine, after which the day's plan would be decided. If there did happen to be a rehearsal – slim chances of that, according to the senior stagehands, as it was a performance week – there would be no one practicing harder than them.

As the crimson curtains swooped down to hide the stage from view, Christine swept in through the wings, her wide rose skirts clipping people's knees as she swanned by. Her head was shaking, quick little vibrations that no one but Kayla seemed to notice. "How's your neck holding up, Daäe?" Kayla hollered over the ruckus.

The young soprano turned and walked over to join her, smiling bashfully. "The wig is quite heavy," Christine admitted, her voice paradoxically shy but loud as she tried to communicate over the din. "I can't believe I was able to hold it up for all that time."

"It takes a strong neck to be able to balance it properly," Carlotta interjected loftily, sashaying past them as she exited the stage, triumphant in the fact that she had received a standing ovation for a silent role. "I'm surprised you didn't snap that pretty French neck of yours," the diva added venomously, her eyes narrowing at the white-haired girl.

"Watch it, Giudicelli," Kayla warned dangerously.

Carlotta threw a disdainful glance in Kayla's direction before she smiled and shrugged at her young blonde ally. "Not bad, Ms. Daäe," commented the diva offhandedly, not looking at Christine. With that, she flounced away as majestically as if she were the one in full-fledged French court finery, rather than the simple garb of a page boy.

"You're Countess tomorrow, so don't go picking fights with the Vicomte!" Kayla howled at Carlotta's back. A manicured hand waved dismissively in agreement before the diva disappeared into the crowd.

Kayla swiveled back to see Christine blinking curiously at her. "How are you controlling her?" the singer inquired incredulously.

"Witchcraft." Kayla deadpanned promptly. "Kidding," she added as Christine's doe eyes grew round as saucers. "I don't take any of her nonsense, that's all. She apparently respects that I have a spine."

"I stood up to her today and she doesn't respect me," Christine replied doubtfully.

Kayla sucked in air through her teeth. "Hate to break it to you sweetie, but Raoul kind of fought your battle today," she retaliated bluntly. "Plus you're her competition. I think occasional, grudging civility is all you can possibly hope for in this scenario." Christine sighed and shrugged. Patting the shorter sixteen year old on the shoulder, Kayla grinned and said, "Congrats, Daäe. I'll see you in the morning, but if I keep my eyes open any longer they're going to jump out of my skull in protest."

"You have such a funny way of talking," Christine smiled fondly.

"Who else is going to amuse you?" Kayla teased, giving an exaggerated bow as she turned to leave. She had seen the managers making a beeline for Christine, alerted to the soprano's location by the pillar of ivory locks, and Kayla was in no mood to deal with them tonight. Kayla dove through the crowd, pushing her way towards the dormitory stairs like a trout swimming up a stream.

Before she reached her escape route, a hand caught her arm. She jumped about a foot in the air and swore silently. She whipped her head towards her trapped elbow and was greeted with steely, worried face of Madame Giry. "I've been instructed to inform you," she began grimly, "that your presence in requested in Box Five."

"What, by the Vicomte?" Kayla scoffed. "There is no way, he can jump off a bridge. Not after the way he yelled at me today."

"The audience is leaving, and the Vicomte is probably searching out Christine as we speak," the ballet mistress hissed quietly.

Kayla's morbid section of brain began to laugh frighteningly, mocking her with modified dialogue from Stuart Maclean.

_Erik's upstairs._

_Erik wants you to… go upstairs. _

_He wants to talk to you. _

"What the f – "Kayla yelped angrily, the expletive halted by Madame Giry's hurried request.

"Keep your voice down, please, Kayla," Madame Giry ordered sternly.

"Sorry, but no; I'd like a decent night's sleep before I'm executed, thanks," Kayla whined. She sounded five years old, and she knew it, but Kayla couldn't muster up the energy for maturity at the moment, especially when it came to cryptic messages from overly dramatic resident phantoms.

"I would not recommend trying his patience, especially in his current mood," Madame Giry advised in a whisper.

"For hell's sakes," Kayla snapped, turning on her heel and practically stomping toward the passage that led to the opera boxes. This particular development was bloody annoying, to say the least. Would it kill the Opera Ghost to just lay low for a couple days? Or, at any rate, to not involve Kayla in whatever nefarious plot he was hatching? The movieverse had kept these three months totally open, anything could happen. And at least could he just tell her the exact reason for cryptic summons to an empty opera box at eleven 'o' clock at night? Honestly, did he have no respect for regular sleep patterns? As she jogged up the stairs, she mentally cursed herself for ever getting involved in the first place. She'd caught Erik's attention by fighting Buquet, Raoul's notice for being friendly, and both men's ire for trying to be diplomatic. It had been a mistake. Maybe she should be attempting escape theories from the Inception school of leaving dreamscapes.

And as if the past five minutes had not thrown enough curveballs, on her way down the hall to the boxes, she smacked right into a broad chest. The smell of cologne alerted her – too late – that the chest belonged to Raoul. Taking a step back and rubbing her forehead, where she could feel a bruise forming thanks to the engraved metal buttons of his jacket, she squinted up at the Vicomte. "Sorry," she apologized sullenly, not meaning it at all. _I hope my head broke your ribs, you bastard,_ she supplemented silently, attempting to maneuver herself around the nobleman.

"Mademoiselle Abbots!" Raoul exclaimed, promptly grabbing her wrist and kissing her hand with a stately bow. "I wanted to apologize for my behaviour earlier; you were only trying to help, I'm sure." He smiled brightly at her. "At any case, agreements can be modified, so you did no harm," he tacked on condescendingly, annoyance flickering in his blue eyes. So it was an act, but for whose benefit the performance was for was beyond Kayla's late night mental capacity. And also, 'agreements can be modified'?

"So it is to be war between us," she muttered defiantly under her breath.

Raoul ignored her, if he had even been paying any attention to her in the first place. "Allow me to introduce my brother the Comte, Phillipe de Chagny," Raoul presented, flourishing a white gloved hand at the man to his left. The specimen in question was only slightly taller than Kayla but shorter than Raoul, with ash blonde hair tied back at the nape of his neck and eyes a bluish shade greener than Raoul's. His skin was paler, probably less active and outdoorsy than his brother – hadn't Raoul been in the navy? Or was Samantha's shrieks of informative glee during fanfiction readings messing with her memory? Philipe's face was narrower, and his gaze colder and more serious.

"A pleasure, mademoiselle," Phillipe stated formally, bending forward to kiss her hand as well. "My brother speaks highly of your work."

"Sure he does, thanks," Kayla replied awkwardly, realizing as the words passed her lips that perhaps her tone was too snarky to be in any was respectful. "Nice to meet you, but I'm late for a thing, gotta go, bye," she rushed. Hurriedly extracting her hand from the Comte's grip, she ducked around the Chagny boys and scurried down the hall, imagining in her frenzy that their gazes followed her all the way to the corner where she mercifully disappeared from view.

_All in a day's work,_ Kayla thought sourly. _Sassing noblemen, meeting with Opera Ghosts. The Populaire business. _

Calves burning, she ran up another flight of stairs and followed the narrowing passage to the opera boxes. She paused outside the shiny door labelled '5' and glared at it accusingly. The Phantom had no right to whistle for her like a puppy and expecting her to just heed his command without protest. She was a girl, not a dog. So she passive-aggressively turned her back on the door and walked nonchalantly a couple metres down the hall and into the next box over. This one was practically identical to Box Five, except that this one was slightly higher and had a differently angled view of the stage. , In fact, Kayla realized she tiptoed to the edge and peered out, she could see _into_ Box Five. Resting her legs and hips against the ledge, she leaned out of the box and stuck her head around the velvet curtain. Box Five was empty and dark. Kayla frowned.

She had taken long enough to get upstairs that the hall was empty, and the lights illuminating the stage had been extinguished. The gas lights of the chandelier were dim, casting only a faint glow onto the dusky velvet chairs below. She debated attempting to climb into Box Five from the outside, using the golden statues and carvings on the walls as footholds, and therefore lowering the change of being ambushed by a lasso. After some consideration she found that she feared painfully dying far more that she feared not-Gerard-Butler, even though death and the Opera Ghost were probably synonyms.

Nevertheless, with her heart pounding out a staccato beat in her chest, she left the box and returned to the assigned meeting place. Unfortunately, upon testing the doorknob – hoping against hope that it would be locked – the polished door swung inward on silent hinges. Kayla gulped. She stood frozen in the doorway for a few minutes before steeling her courage and stepping inside. And took another step. And another, her minimal courage only sustained by the fact that if the peace talks went south, she could probably dive out of the box and possibly pull off a successful, adrenaline fuelled climb into the box next door. She eyed the column in the corner suspiciously. _I've got my eye on you_, she thought at it peevishly.

Based on appearances, she was the only living thing in Box Five, but there was – in her mind at least – at least a two-thousand percent chance Erik was lurking somewhere. "Okay, dude, you wanna talk? Let's talk," she challenged into the darkness. "But if you jumpscare me I swear I will injure you… probably." She lifted her chin and stuck her hands on her hips.

There was no response. "What the hell do you want me to do, sit down?" Kayla snarled. "I'm here at your request, the least you could do was acknowledge I'm not being screwed with." She scowled at the silence. "Eff this, I'm out," she snapped after no other noise was forthcoming, heading for the door.

"You seem to think that you have the authority to make the decisions, here, in my domain."

The smooth, silky, sensual voice came from right behind her.

"FRICKLESFRACKLESJENSENACKLESWHATTHEHELL!" Kayla shrieked, practically levitating off the floor as she turned one hundred and eighty degrees to face the origin of the voice. There was nothing behind her but the dusk of the opera box and the gloom of the theatre. "Ah, but of course, ventriloquism, ha, ha, ha, you got me," she exclaimed sarcastically, her voice shaking despite all attempts to control it. "I guess I don't remember everything, do I?" A rabbit's heart pattered in her throat. Dropping into one of the cushioned chairs, her hand drifted unconsciously to her heart, which felt like it was going into cardiac arrest. "Well, would ya look at that?" she stuttered, raising a hand to her face and examining her quivering fingers. "I'm actually scared right now!" Faced with the subject of at least fifty percent of her artwork and her sister's adoration, she felt completely paralyzed.

"Now," the voice began slowly. "Shall we begin?"

Ah, yes, as if locked in a box with a probable sociopath was not intense enough, he had to start inadvertently quoting psychopaths. Excellent. "But we haven't been properly introduced," Kayla protested lightly, trying to put some strength back into her voice. "I'm Kayla. Kayla Abbots. I'd offer to shake your hand, but if I recall correctly you're not really one for physical contact."

"Make no mistake, I know exactly who you are, mademoiselle," the spectre hissed, the voice drifting from behind the curtain on her right.

"Incorrect," Kayla shot back, her blue eyes darting about wildly in search of a white mask in the shadows. "You couldn't possibly know exactly who I am, and if you did you wouldn't be attempting interrogation tactics."

"I know everything and everyone that exists within this opera house, mademoiselle," the voice rebuked from the left-hand drapes. "I am not to be trifled with."

"Yeah, I kind of got that, thanks," Kayla snarled, her heart still racing like a runaway train. "Now, am I to be hung, drawn, and quartered or can I go to bed now? I've been up since seven and I'm kind of done with this whole business of being awake."

"Do not mock me," the Opera Ghost snarled right next to her ear.

Kayla shrieked and leapt back. Dark laughter echoed through the box. "If you are attempting to kill me through insanity and fright, trust me, it'll take a lot to freak me out that badly," Kayla squeaked. "My cousin's a Supernatural fan."

"I am not even going to pretend to understand your foolishness," the voice smirked darkly.

"I've seen a lot of horrific stuff, let's leave it at that," Kayla explained grimly.

"Like my face?" the ghost growled from behind her right shoulder, making it feel like the phantom was stalking in a predatory circle around her. Chills ran over Kayla's skin, the sensation crawling

"What? No, you moron, I like your face," Kayla exclaimed incredulously. "Why the hell would I draw something that freaked the hell out of me? It's actually a fact of human nature that we draw and create beautiful things and if makes us actually feel happy, and that we resist making art we hate because it lowers our own self-esteem."

Dead silence.

"Okay, I sounded like a psychologist there, I'm sorry; I'm a visual arts major I swear," Kayla apologized nervously.

The voice replied from in front of her this time. "You speak so eloquently at times, and then follow it up with nonsense," it mused.

"Well, you like music and making operas and composing, right?" Kayla explained. "It probably raises your dopamine levels – happy brain chemicals, to you – and that's why you have so many drawings of Chri…"

"DO NOT SPEAK OF HER!" he yelled angrily, the shout coming directly out of the column. "YOU DO NOT DESERVE THE PRIVILEGE OF SAYING HER NAME!"

_I knew it! I knew he was in there! Didn't I tell you he was in there? _The gleeful section of her brain yelped triumphantly_. Yah, yah, I know, I know; shut up_, the annoyed sector replied.

"Woah there bro, calm down," Kayla retorted. Her pulse was still thundering in her neck, but she was more furious than scared now. The Phantom was nothing but a hurt little kid looking for some kind of companionship. He had not killed her yet, and as long as she was careful he probably would not Punjab her. "The entirety of Paris is raving about her performances, thanks to you, and plus _I_ talk to her on a daily basis, which is more than you can claim." That last bit popped out before her brain was able to suitably filter the statement. Her eyes widened involuntarily. "Okay I didn't mean that last bit," she amended, horrified at herself.

"I have been her teacher for _years_, I understand her far more than you _ever_ will. If you hold her in such high _esteem_," he taunted scornfully, "why did you help those fools of managers bring back the Italian toad? Don't deny it, I saw her playing the _page boy._"

"Hey, Carlotta has redeeming qualities, much like yourself," Kayla snarked defiantly. "It's a matter of experience; Carlotta has more performances and a broader collection of solos than Christine does. If they alternate, they both have adequate rest for their voices, opportunities to expand their role repertoire, and both women will keep their fairly extensive fanbases. The Populaire's going to bring in more income if you keep both, and maybe to the point that you could raise your payment requirements. And your one true desire did seem to be that Carlotta play some silent roles… what was it you said? _'The role of the pageboy is silent, which makes my casting at a word ideal'_?"

"I would far rather her be expelled from her position and cast out of the Populaire," the Opera Ghost stated, almost dreamily.

Kayla snorted. "And I'd like to find some way to get back to my own universe. Unfortunately, we can't always get what we want."

There was a long, contemplative pause. "I will allow the contract to stand… for now," he declared begrudgingly.

"Good for you. Did you need me for anything else or can I go now?" Kayla sarcastically commented.

"No Mademoiselle Abbots, I've only just begun," the Phantom's voice acknowledged sinisterly. "I have proposition for you, if you will deign to listen."

* * *

**Author's Note: And there we are! The fastest chapter of this story that I have ever written, and possibly the longest! The Stuart Maclean dialogue was adapted from the CBC's Vinyl Café broadcasts, and Erik's inadvertent psychopath quote was taken from Star Trek Into Darkness, the credit to which goes to J.J. Abrams and the writers. **

**Some of the cavaliers and ballet rats, Raoul interaction, and Erik action! Let me know in a PM or a review how you think this chapter turned out. And never fear, I won't be leaving you all on a cliff hanger. I'm planning to post another chapter later today, but I have class right now so I'll finish up writing it and post it probably tonight. It won't be as long as this one though. ;)**

**Thank you to all those who favourited, followed, or reviewed, as well as to Samantha, Guest, and E-man-dy-S. I love you all!**

**Thanks!**

**Tierney**


	27. Chapter 27

**Author's Note: I still do not own Phantom of the Opera. I only own Kayla and any original plot. **

* * *

27

Kayla could not believe what she was hearing, a common enough occurrence in this universe. "What?" she said warily. "What kind of proposition are we talking here?"

"I am speaking of a… alliance, of sorts," the ghost stated delicately. "I have seen your artwork; that much you surely know."

"Yeah, cause you stole it," Kayla countered.

"_You_ left it behind," he corrected irately. "But no matter; the person at fault is not of consequence in this particular situation. All of my time is consumed by composing, and your artwork is sufficient enough that I propose that you will create the illustrations for the set book of my opera."

Kyla blinked. And stared at the column. And blinked once more. "What? Me? Draw for your set book? Make artwork for _Don Juan_?" She paused. She tugged nervously on the tail of her blonde, streaked French braid. "What?" she repeated incredulously.

"As I said, I am not yet finished composing my opera," the Phantom clarified impatiently. "Your drawings will be adequate to create my set book."

"There is no way," Kayla glared. "For _your_ masterpiece nothing would be good enough except complete perfection. Unless you're testing me or… Aw! You have faith in my abilities!" she cooed, merely letting her internal fangirl rise victoriously to the surface as she teased the Opera Ghost.

The tension in the room increased dramatically. "You will create the set book according to my exact instructions," his voice bit out from near the door. "I will get the final say in all matters and none shall be any the wiser that it was you who created it and not me."

"But you still think I could draw perfectly enough for your set book!" Kayla squealed. She clapped her hands under her chin in an only slightly mocking imitation of an overeager schoolgirl. "Aren't you just the sweetest little spectre _ever_!"

"If you ever call me that again," the Phantom warned in her ear after a substantially long and apprehensive silence. "I will do everything in my power to make sure that you wish you were never born."

"Ah, but no, you cannot!" Kayla cheered, dancing triumphantly around the room. "You need me! You've played your hand, Phantom! I win the poker game! Whooo!" She boogied around the room for a moment or two more before she stopped, wandered to the corner, and poked the column where she thought the Opera Ghost was hidden with her index finger. "I know you're in there, do I get to see you face to face now? I already know what you look like, Gerar… I mean, Phantom."

"I will leave paper and supplies for you, if you need them," the Phantom offered from the edge of the box, evading the question.

"Oh yeah, I'll need them," Kayla agreed wholeheartedly. "I've only got one set of pencils, and I might need graphite, and I have the tiniest little set of watercolours you've ever seen in your life, and I would use tubes of paint if you had them. Or acrylic. Oh wait, its 1870, no acrylic; that's not till 1934. Dammit. And I don't really use oil. Shoot. How about coloured pencil? Oh shoot, nope, art-grade coloured pencils don't make an appearance until 1900's, dammit." And it was then she realized that as far as art went, she was a total city girl. "Conte sticks! 1795!" she shrieked excitedly. "Conte! And graphite sticks! And ink! And watercolour! I can work with that!" She poked the column again. "Do you have that stuff?"

"Possibly," the Opera Ghost admitted confusedly.

"Whooo!" Kayla cheered again. She hugged the column in her excitement and then jumped hurriedly back, painfully aware that she had no idea if the column could open or not. Better to be cautious than not.

"I will give you the actual book pages once I have approved your drafts." His voice was quieter, gentler now. "I will leave the supplies behind the ironwork of the window in the chapel, I trust you know of it. It opens, though not many people know of it, and there is a sill behind it. I will hide your tools underneath. Madame Giry will get the key to you, or she will leave it under Monsieur Giry's candle."

"Wait," Kayla cried out impulsively when he stopped, sensing that he was going to leave.

"Yes, Mademoiselle Abbots?" His voice was tired. He was not sleeping well, probably. Kayla knew she'd be walking up walls and pacing the floor if she had just been cheated on, which the Phantom practically had. She felt a surge of sympathy.

"Can we start over?" she suggested. "We didn't exactly start this conversation on good terms." She curtsied, holding out invisible skirts to the side as she dipped down and bent her head. "Je m'appelle Kayla. Kayla Abbots."

"A pleasure," the ghost said stiffly.

"And now you," Kayla prompted, rising from the curtsey slightly awkwardly. This whole time-period-accurate manners was harder than it looked.

"You already know my name, don't you? I see no reason to repeat it."

"Yes, well, if we are to be partners in crime, I want to hear you say it. I'm actually going to make you meet me face to face at some point; I can't do all the work without any personal input," Kayla pointed out. "Come on, please?" she pleaded. "I'm not gonna rip off your mask, I just want to know your name. Please?"

There was a taut moment of quiet. "Erik Destler," he said rigidly.

Kayla grinned. "Well then, Mr. Destler," she beamed. "We've got to start somewhere. I'll be in the chapel tomorrow morning if you want to talk. Or just pop out of a wall, I'm not picky." She jumped forward and hugged the column again. "I'm going to bed, 'night!" Without waiting for a reply, she scurried out of the room. Once in the hall, she leaned her head against the wall and swore. That was stressful. Very stressful. The most stressful thing she'd ever done. She'd be able to defend a future Master's thesis no problem now. She peeked at the time on her phone. It was almost midnight. She had to be awake again in less than eight hours.

Yawning widely, she walked back down the hall as the gaslights slowly dimmed. Her bed was calling.

* * *

Erik stood in the column, strained and overwhelmed. His name. When had been the last time he had said his name? Out loud? Or when had he even thought of it, for that matter? Kayla knew it; that was obvious. But she had made him say it. He did not know the reason. He supposed she would call him Monsieur Destler now. Or maybe even Erik; she did not seem to make any differentiations between first and last names. But she was the kind of girl who might ask permission before calling him by his first name.

And she had hugged the column. What was the reason for that? Would she have hugged _him_ if he had been standing there instead? Erik had the strangest feeling that she would.

Her enthusiasm was encouraging. If she truly loved art, she would not fail him. He turned and walked into the passageway. She did not care if he was the Opera Ghost. He had no word to describe her but kind. And she did not belong in this world. She had no reason to betray him, unlike… No. He still could not dwell on _her_. As he descended into the underground, his lips curled beneath the porcelain mask.

Kayla Abbots would not fail him.

* * *

**Author's Note: Officially the fastest chapter I have ever written! This one's a lot shorter than the last one, but I promised you all another chapter and another chapter I shall give you! After this chapter we are entering Elysian Peace! Completely uncharted territory, people! Therefore I welcome any suggestions you guys may have about events or interactions you'd like to see. Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed, and favourited, and to Kodami-offline for the guest review. **

**Thanks for all the support, guys. Love you all!**

**Tierney **


	28. Chapter 28

**Author's Note: Everyone repeat after me: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. Also, warning, Kayla swears briefly. **

* * *

28

When Kayla woke up the next morning at seven thirty, she had to drag herself out of bed. She had slept in the French braid, and when she untied the ribbon, her blonde hair tumbled down her back. The locks did not reach their normal level under her shoulder blades, because the braid had curled her hair into short, wide waves. "I look like a poodle," she moaned to herself despondently, glaring at herself in the mirror. She took a cursory glance over at Christine and Meg. Golden and brunette ringlets cascaded smoothly over the white pillows, framing rosy cheeks, pink lips, and fluttering long lashes. Kayla frowned and turned back to the mirror, tugging at one of the accidental curls. "I am in a movieverse, can't I get some nice hair too?" she pleaded to the air. The blonde locks stayed crimped. She gave up on the powers-that-would-provide-beautiful-movie-looks, brushing her hair none-too-gently and piling it up into a messy bun on the top of her head. Rummaging through her trunk, she found her second pair of work pants, grabbed her bra and her navy button-up, and quickly changed. She stuck her phone in her back pocket and snatched her boots out from under the bed, pulling them on as she hopped to the door.

"What day is it?" she called softly to Jamie as he walked into the wings an hour later.

"It's Wednesday," Jamie replied, his long-fingered hands stuck in his vest pockets as he sauntered over to join her. Kayla was leaning against one of the beams of the set, peering out of the wings at the two prima ballerinas running through their solos on the stage. They had arrived about half an hour ago; in fact, Meg had accompanied her down to the stage from the dorms. Madame Giry and a male flutist observed from the orchestra pit, the soft shrill music echoing quietly around the dancers. Meg was shorter than her fellow lead, but was just as graceful, jumping just as high and stepping just as lightly as Gaelle. Kayla turned to look at Jamie. His brown eyes were following Meg appreciatively, a small smile waving from the corners of his mouth. "Your eager puppy-like behaviour is appalling," Kayla informed the chestnut haired boy teasingly. "You're drooling."

A tanned hand shot up to his face and felt around his lips. Jamie glowered and lightly punched her shoulder. "Am not," he protested childishly.

"I ship this," Kayla commented, grinning at the look on her co-worker's face as he was distracted by Meg leaping across the stage, her arms floating gently over her head as she kicked out her legs into the splits, hanging in the air for an infinite moment before landing silently and going straight into a spin. "You should go for it."

Jamie's eyes narrowed. "Do you use different vocabulary in Canada? Because I consider myself to be a rather intelligent gentleman-nobody, and I understood none of that," he said apologetically, glancing at Kayla briefly before his eyes locked onto the young Giry once more.

"I mean I want you two in a relationship," Kayla translated, making a mental note to stay clear of Tumblr talk. "Have you even talked to her?"

"We say hello when we run into each other backstage," Jamie shrugged. "We're kind of friends, I guess, not really, but we are friendly. Oh, and there was that thing you made me say… the pickup line?"

Kayla snickered. "Yes, that worked well," she laughed, waving at Meg as the dancer faced the wings momentarily. The golden-haired ballerina grinned back widely, blue eyes silently greeting both Kayla and Jamie. When she turned and pirouetted across the stage, Kayla could have sworn there was a noticeable lightness in her steps that had not been as clear before. A helpful burst of strength thanks to adrenaline, originating from the need to impress someone. It was a feeling Kayla knew well, thanks to her junior high and high school years as a volleyball player, when it was almost always guaranteed that there would be either recruiters or cute boys watching from the stands. Not that it had helped very much, in her case, and she had given up volleyball when it was made clear that the U of C varsity team was out of her league. Nevertheless, she still felt similar energy surges on occasion in the years since.

"Look at how light her feet are," Kayla muttered, gesturing at Meg's pointed, satin-shoed toes.

"Wonderful," Jamie murmured. "I mean, yeah, she's beautiful. I mean talented. As a dancer," he amended as Kayla raised one knowing eyebrow at him.

"Sure,"' Kayla smirked.

"Watching Mademoiselle Giry again, are we Blanchard?" Clemens exclaimed, appearing out of nowhere and slinging his arms around Jamie and Kayla's shoulders. The rest of the crew materialized behind him. "There's rehearsal today, at least for the dancers," the redhead recited proudly. "But Madame Giry apparently requested that we be there so the rats feel some more pressure. We don't have to move the big sets, but we have to adjust the smaller pieces and stage props, just to get them in the mood."

"How about the performers?" Kayla inquired. "Are they working today?"

"Private rehearsals, I thought? The chorus is with the vocal coaches, and Christine and Carlotta have apparently locked themselves in their own practice rooms on opposite ends of the Opera House," Clemens shrugged. "Madame Giry's starting full dance rehearsals at nine thirty, with the full orchestra starting at nine."

"I know it seems unstructured, lassie, but it's always different during performance periods," Claude added soothingly. "Just wait till we start rehearsing _Faust_, then you'll see what working at the Populaire is really like."

"Abbots can handle it," Jamie declared, nudging her.

"Half past eight now," Germaine mentioned, snapping open his pocket watch.

"Okay, let's get to it," Kayla announced, nodding. "Breakfast. Stuffing faces time, let's go."

* * *

The morning of rehearsals went quite smoothly. The only large prop they had to move was the bed, and they simply moved it into the corner of the stage, so the dancers would have room and the crew would not have to waste valuable time moving it all the way to and from its place backstage.

To say the ballet rats were pleased to see Kayla would be an understatement. They were bouncing around her like enthusiastic puppies. Because Madame Giry had decided that none of the hanging pieces were necessary for the rehearsal, Kayla stood in the wings opposite Box Five with Jamie, Baptiste, Germaine, and some of the rest of the crew; the others were in opposite wings, sticking out their tongues and making faces. Whenever the ballet rats were offstage, there would be at least five little girls clustered at her feet, fidgeting with the tulle of their practice tutus and jabbering at Kayla cheerfully. There were only a few stops for Madame Giry to correct technique and provide other advice. It was the calmest high-pressure rehearsal Kayla had ever experienced, and despite of the fact that there was a performance later on, there was an air of relaxed camaraderie onstage. Even the strict ballet mistress cracked the occasional smile.

The rehearsal was only about two and a half hours, the amount of time required made shorter by the lack of the songs and of Carlotta, who seemed to extend the length of rehearsals significantly due to her consistent tantrums. After the cast and crew were released, the ballerinas headed off to have lunch, while the set crew re-arranged the stage for Act 1 scene 1.

"Where are you going, Abbots?" Clemens queried, sounding slightly off-put.

Kayla turned back to face the rest of the crew, who were heading down the passage to the kitchens. "I have to go check something," she said, which was not technically a lie. "I kind of wanted to check that the key worked for the office." The latter was a lie; Madame Giry had slipped the, old-fashioned brass key into her hand as the older woman left the stage, and had informed Kayla that she had already checked on the office, and Buquet had not destroyed anything the night he died. Along with the brass key was a tiny one made of black iron, and Madame Giry had nodded her head in confirmation when Kayla had raised a questioning eyebrow. So really Kayla had no reason to go into the office. Guilt poked its sharp little claws into her stomach, but she shoved it down; this was Phantom business, and the less the crew knew about it, the better. "I'll be fifteen minutes, tops," she promised, grinning at her boys.

"She's a grown woman, she can take care of herself. Nothing to harm her here," Germaine agreed, slapping Clemens good-naturedly on the shoulder. Kayla's smile faltered.

"See you guys in the dining hall?" she proposed. With a chorus of approval and waving hands, the set crew made their way down the corridor, while Kayla ventured deeper into the shadows of the backstage. She scared herself a number of times, mostly when she spotted things out of the corner of her eye, such a plaster mannequin wrapped in a long black cloak. "Seriously people. It's like you want a horror movie to happen," she muttered to herself, keeping one eye on the silent statue. Drifting through the high shelves, she ducked past mannequins and props, her boot heels clicking on the wooden panels of the floor. It was eerie, especially as she could her the haunting notes of a distant viola, probably from one of the orchestra practice rooms upstairs. At least she hoped it was from the practice rooms.

She finally reached the furthest corner of the backstage, where a set of stone stairs descended into the depths, gold letters spelling out _CHAPELLE_ over the narrow archway. She peeked around the corner. No one there, as far as she could tell. Kayla cautiously made her way down the steep steps. A frescoed angel presided over the front of the room, painted in fading pastel shades in an arched alcove above the altar. Two small, dusty wooden tables sat at the angel's feet, containing rows of candles and tiny portraits. To Kayla's left sat the almost depleted candle of Gustave Daäe, his brown eyes gazing solemnly out of the black and white photograph. On the other side was Monsieur Francois Giry, whose first name Kayla had not known until this very moment. His candle was practically new, the long, blackened wick peeking proudly out of the top of the smooth wax, but this was a recent addition, if the deep waves of shiny white around the base were any indication.

She swiveled on her heels, hands on her hips as she looked askance at the iron grillwork of the faux-window. Fishing the little iron key out of her pocket, she hefted it in her palm experimentally. The room was silent as a tomb; not exactly a comforting thought. She walked slowly over to the sill, the thump of leather boots on cold stone echoing up to the arched ceiling. Squatting down, she squinted at the swirls of black. There was no apparent keyhole – which was, she supposed, the whole point of this arrangement – and her brow furrowed in annoyance. Searching out a lock for a key smaller than the first digit of her pinky finger was going to make her job a whole lot harder. She ran her finger lightly over the bottom edge of the grate, but the metal was smooth and there were no divots. Cursing under her breath, Kayla began running both hands up the edges of either side. The keyhole was on the right hand side, about three quarters of the way up to the vaulted top of the iron work. She had to stand on the sill in order to fit the key into the lock, stretching her arm up and wrestling the tiny piece of metal into the hole. It was frustrating; she was a tall girl, and all five foot ten inches of her should be able to reach the lock no problem. The keyhole almost seemed to be mocking her lack of height. "I'm not short!" she hissed at the condescending metal frame. It would be easier for Erik, she supposed with a laugh. Gerard Butler, she knew, was 6'1, but she was not positive if the measurement would hold true here. But then again, Christine looked to be around 5'6, the same height as Emmy Rossum. _Christine_ definitely would be unable to reach this lock.

With an impatient twist, the lock gave way with a loud click. The ironwork swung inward on creaky hinges. She stuck her head through and peered under the ledge. Squealing delightedly, Kayla crawled through and knelt on the light grey stone of the hidden inner hallway, pushing the ironwork slightly shut behind her, though careful not to lock herself in. Underneath the smooth overhang was a pile of art supplies, a pile of rough, creamy yellow newsprint, a thick stack of textured white watercolour paper, a cluster of brushes tied together with a black satin ribbon, bottles of black and red ink, ink nibs and their pens, moderately sized tubes of vibrant watercolours, and graphite sticks and dark wooden pencils stacked haphazardly on top. A white envelope with the distinctive crimson seal leaned against the wall of the little alcove. Snatching it up, she worried it open, not wanting to rip the note or ruin the seal.

_Mademoiselle_, the note read.

_Here are the supplies you requested. I hope they prove useful to you. Now, I would recommend taking them into your office, though wait for a moment when you will not be seen. Such an excess of materials may prove difficult to explain, and it would not do for you to have any tangible connections with my work. You will leave your drafts here daily, and any future correspondence will be left under this alcove. A synopsis of the first scene is enclosed._

_I remain, your faithful patron,_

_O.G._

She rocked back on her heels, beaming at the note. He was a cryptic bastard, but now he was her almost-friend-cryptic-bastard. "Hey, buddy, you here?" she whispered. Her whisper bounced alone around the cramped passageway. "Thanks," she tried again. Still nothing. She tore a piece off of a sheet of newsprint and grabbed a graphite stick and began to scribble.

_Thanks bro, I'm looking forward to this. I might need a place to work though, so perhaps you could maybe find me a place where I can work and store my crap supplies? I'd say I can work in your lair but I don't know if you'd appreciate the overt invasion of privacy. ;) Maybe there's an unused practice room I can steal? Let me know either way._

_I'm gonna leave the stuff here for now, cause I'm supposed to meet the crew. I'll try to pick it up after the show tonight, because I'm supposed to meet the crew in a couple minutes and there were rehearsals going on. But I'll ninja them out of here, you can be assured of that. (A ninja is sneaky double agent person from Japan. That's the best I can explain it without getting too in depth.) Lemme know about the secret art studio idea! And talk to me for heaven's sakes, I'll need the advice in person at some point!_

_Your partner in crime,_

_K.A._

_P.S. Thank you for the supplies. I'm going to have so much fun._

She folded up the paper and scribbled "_To O.G_" on the front. She shoved the watercolours and the brushes into her pockets, thinking that she might as well lighten the load she'd have to carry later. Crawling back out of the faux-window, she awkwardly locked the gate again behind her. She jumped childishly off the sill, unable to keep herself from smiling. She grinned up at the ceiling. "Thanks again, if you're listening," she addressed the air. A faint chuckling sound wafted from somewhere, and she shivered. "Well okay, then, thanks for creeping me out, I'm going now," she stated firmly. She began to back towards the stairs.

"Kayla."

"WHATTHEHECKYPADALECKISONOFABITCH!" Kayla yelped, whipping around in the direction of the voice. Christine stood confusedly in the doorway of the chapel, wrapped in a wide skirted chocolate dress and a cherry hued cloak, snowflakes still hanging on for dear life in her dark curls. Realizing almost too late that she still had Erik's note in her hand, she did the only thing she could think of doing. Forced to hide it before her body turned to face Christine, she followed the only course of action that could possibly work. Kayla stuffed the Phantom's note into her bra. "Satan's grandmother, Daäe, you can't sneak up on me like that," Kayla gasped, her heart palpitating in her chest. "You scared me, my gosh…" She could feel stinging on her chest, and realized exasperatedly that she probably just gave herself a paper cut.

"What are you doing down here?" Christine questioned, her doe eyes narrowing.

"I could ask the same of you," Kayla breathed, her heart rate refusing to lower.

"I'm lighting a candle for my father," the soprano replied, gesturing at the little altar of melted wax.

"Right. Of course, sorry," Kayla apologized, tugging nervously on a strand of blonde hair that had escaped from her bun. She stepped out of Christine's way and strode toward the stairs.

"What _were_ you doing down here?"

Kayla cast a glance back, meeting the eyes of the curious soprano. "A girl can explore, can't she?" she quipped, grinning teasingly, but she knew that it did not reach her eyes. The stage manager bounded back up the stairs, feeling the soprano's confused stare burning a hole in her back.

* * *

**Author's Note: I almost didn't get this chapter finished, but I pushed through and did it! Thanks to everyone who favourited, followed, and reviewed. And to Guest, Samantha, E-man-dy-S, and thetasigma, thank you as well. **

**So, in addition to taking requests on events in Elysian Peace, I am also wondering about possibly starting another fic. Therefore, I am asking you, my readers, are there any other fictional worlds you would like to watch me explore? **

**Let me know what you think! Thank you all for being wonderful readers.**

**Tierney **


	29. Chapter 29

**Author's Note: Still do not own Phantom of the Opera. **

* * *

29

She went straight back to her office and threw the paints and brushes onto the desk. Reaching down the front of her shirt in a fashion that may have made even the most loyal of Team Daäe switch allegiances, Kayla extracted Erik's note. It was crumpled, with rips along the edges. The envelope was bent, and there were pieces of the red skull stuck to the top of Kayla's chest. There was a long, thin slice under her collar bone that was oozing tiny droplets of vermillion. "Damn you to hell, paper cut," Kayla hissed, grimacing as the cut stung in protest.

She made to toss the note on top of the brushes, but hesitated. She swiped the art supplies into an empty desk drawer, then carefully flattened out the crumpled envelope and slid it underneath the tubes of paint. Then she left the office.

Lunch was uneventful. She sat at a table with the cavaliers and the set crew, and ate some sort of spicy sausage soup and more of the fluffy French bread. After the bowls had been cleared, Kayla, leaning against Jamie with her boots propped up on Leonardo's knees, recited the Disney version of _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_. The ballet rats heard her storytelling tone from across the room, and abandoned the seniors to join the set crew. The little dancers had squeezed themselves into thin empty spaces on the bench, squished by the older boys around them. A couple of them claimed the laps of relatives, such as Amelia, Clemens' niece, and Marie, Claude's granddaughter. Kayla could feel the glares of the senior ballerinas, at whose altars the ballet rats had previously devoted all their worship. But who cared; Lena was perched on top of her outstretched legs. None of the ballerinas were getting cuddles from adorable little girls. Damn, she missed sister time with Samantha.

She was in the middle of an explanation of the Court of Miracles – a confusing topic, as the ballet rats were not incredibly keen on there being a slightly malicious underground stronghold that they had never previously heard of, in a city they had lived in their whole lives – when the rest of the room went abruptly silent. Once they realized, the cavaliers, crew, and rats all turned as one to face the door.

Carlotta stood imperiously in the doorway. Chin raised haughtily, she surveyed the silent room with the air of an empress. "Abbots," she announced. "I would like to speak with you."

"Why?" Kayla sighed, eyes narrowing.

"A private matter… that does not concern the rest of you," Carlotta answered, directly the last statement sharply at the rest of the room.

"I'm sitting on her leg. And she's telling a story. She's busy," Lena squeaked defiantly, crossing her little arms.

"LENA!" the ballet rats admonished shrilly, casting nervous glances at the infamous Prima Donna.

"I don't care, I'm not moving until we hear what happened to Esmeralda," Lena hissed at her compatriots.

"Shut up, that's Signora Giudicelli you're talking to!" Clare whispered in terror, peering out from behind Avère's broad shoulder.

"Hey, hey, it's okay guys," Kayla shushed them calmly. She glanced at Carlotta. "I'm in the middle of lunch, and Lena's right, she's sitting on me and I'm kind of halfway through a recital. Can it wait?"

The two women stared at each other, amber and dark blue staring intently at each other. The soprano broke first. "I will be in the prima practice room," the diva proclaimed with a toss of her auburn head. "Meet me dere in ten minutes." She swept away like a hurricane.

Kayla glanced back at her tablemates. They were all staring at her concernedly.

"I'm not going to be there in ten minutes," she said coolly. "More like thirty. Baptiste, pass me the rest of the baguette."

* * *

"You're late," commented Carlotta peevishly as Kayla stalked into the practice room fifty minutes later.

"I got lost; I didn't exactly get a grand tour of this place," Kayla snapped back unconcernedly, hands clasped behind her back as she walked heel-toe, heel-toe, on the wooden floor. She had gotten lost, she was not lying on that point. The practices rooms were scattered throughout the opera house, mostly in wings that she had not yet had the chance to explore. The practice room generally reserved for the prima donna was in the East wing, almost as far from the stage as one could possibly go. Then again, Kayla departed from the dining hall forty minutes after Carlotta's exit, and had only spent ten minutes lost in the rabbit warren of hallways.

The room was bare, dark wood floorboards turned to liquid bronze in the lazy beams of sun drifting through the small round windows. It was not monstrous in size, but large enough, about five or six square metres in total, and had cream papered walls, devoid of any of the golden trimmings that adorned so many of the other rooms in the Populaire. A grand piano gleamed in the corner of the room, and a shiny oak chair rested by a small table against the left-hand wall.

"You've won over the ballet rats, hmm?" Carlotta hummed, shifting a ribbon on her lavender taffeta skirt back into place. "And the cavaliers as well, you ar' a persuasive little thing."

"I'm not little, you're just a little taller than I am!" Kayla barked teasingly. "They were actually kind of impressed that I talked you down."

"You did not 'talk me down'," Carlotta protested. "I wanted to speak to you in private, and I got what I wanted. Dat one little rodent, though, I could 'ave smacked her!"

"No violence on my little ladies," Kayla ordered strictly. "But yes, Lena is very sassy. I love her to death. They're all great mini-minions."

"I only have two allies in this opera house," Carlotta sniffed regally. "Ubaldo, and, unfortunately, you. You, on the other hand, have supporters everywhere. Five seasons I have slaved away in the Populaire, five! You've been here… what, three days?"

"Four," Kayla corrected. She was surprised by her own number_. Four days down, over three months to go. _

"Four days! _I_ have been here for years!" the soprano moaned.

Quirking an eyebrow, Kayla mildly inquired, "Do I detect a hint of jealously?"

The intensity of Carlotta's glare could have turned Kayla to stone.

"Of course not," Kayla answered her own question. Sticking her hands in her pocket and rocking back on her heels, she asked, "To what do I owe the pleasure of being mysteriously dragged to a random part of the opera house?"

"Ah, yes, that," Carlotta acknowledged. The diva's heels clacked on the wooden boards as the soprano moved across the room to the table. She picked up a white envelope. Kayla froze.

Walking back, she held it out to Kayla who took it gingerly. Flipping it over, she examined it more carefully. Relieved, her eyes roved over the _Mademoiselle Abbots _in curvy violet script, gilt golden edge, thick, ivory paper, and diamond-shaped purple crest that sealed the envelope. _It's not a Phantom trap,_ she assured herself. A small part of her was still shrieking in terror, while an even tinier section was sighing in disappointment. Hushing up the disappointed section mercilessly, she wondered if she had envelope PTSD now. Carlotta glared at her impatiently. "It's too pretty to open!" Kayla grinned, running a finger carefully over the lightly textured paper.

"For the love of God, Abbots, open the bloody envelope!" Carlotta exclaimed.

Kayla winked and gently ran a fingernail under the wax seal. Popping it up carefully, she gently flipped open the envelope, and slid out a creamy stationary card, crested with the violet inked Giudicelli seal.

_You are cordially invited to the Giudicelli Estate on Friday, October the 14th, for a night of dinner, dancing, and music. _

_Arrival at 7 'o' clock, supper to be served at 9 'o' clock._

_Formal attire._

_Bring a gift or be prepared to perform._

Kayla read the flowing letters for a second time before looking at the diva. "Is this for me?" she grinned delightedly.

"No, it's for the Opera Ghost; of course it's for you, you ninny!" Carlotta retorted sarcastically.

Kayla scanned the invitation for the third time. "You want me, in your house, in a social situation?" she clarified.

"Yes, I would not have invited you if I did not," Carlotta sighed.

"But you invited the managers, didn't you?" Kayla frowned, catching the slight grimace around Carlotta's red lips.

"Yes, and the Vicomte," Carlotta agreed sourly. "And he will bring Daäe; that is for certain. I could not tell him he was not allowed to bring her."

The cryptic final line jumped out at Kayla once more. "_Bring a gift or be prepared to perform?_" she quoted confusedly.

Carlotta looked away.

"What?" Kayla's voice was suspicious.

"It's…." the diva hesitated.

Kayla scowled at her. "You're being a silly little avoider. It's like Daäe whenever you ask where she was, when you both know she was at the Chagny place."

The comparison to her sworn enemy convinced Carlotta to speak. "It's for my birthday," she muttered.

"OHMAIGASH CONGRATULATIONS!" Kayla yelped excitedly, clapping her hands. "Merciful heavens, was that so bloody hard? I love birthdays, you silly soprano you!"

The room was abruptly silent.

"That was not the behaviour of a typical ally," Carlotta commented bluntly.

"Well excuse me for being enthusiastic," Kayla snarked.

The two had a staring contest.

"I can be enthusiastic about your birthday. I'm no threat to your bloody supremacy. We're allies. We can be occasionally friendly. We've reached that point," Kayla pointed out decidedly.

Another pause.

"Fair enough," agreed Carlotta, surprising the younger woman.

"Okay, anyway, continue," Kayla prompted, waving her hand.

"Traditionally people bring gifts," Carlotta explained. "If they do not, I make them perform something."

"Okay, sweet. Oh, except I'm'a have to perform. I have no money," Kayla laughed nervously.

"That's all I had to say," Carlotta concluded, gesturing at the envelope in Kayla's hand. "I just wanted to give you that privately; no one else from the Populaire is getting one."

"Except Piangi, the managers, and the Vicomte," Kayla nodded.

"Except for Piangi, the managers, and the Vicomte," Carlotta echoed in confirmation.

* * *

Carlotta departed soon after, to rest before the performance. It was about three in the afternoon, and judging by the fact that no one seemed to be looking for her, Kayla felt comfortable with just wandering around the Populaire. Taking a peek out of a window she passed, Kayla saw that Paris was still buried in fluffy snow. October snowstorms. Not something that was unusual for her, as the snow in Calgary usually started halfway through October and did not let up until the end of April, but for some reason she had always pictured Paris as being in an eternal state of fall. Oh well, there was still the rest of the month. The weather would probably change eventually.

Kayla sauntered down the hallways, leaving her feet to aimlessly lead her. Her eyelids were heavy, her stomach full of soup and bread, her thoughts slow. And there would be dinner in a couple hours. The food was awesome, and she loved it, but she felt a strange craving for exercise. But it wasn't like she could just go running in the city, or go toss around a volleyball. The sport did not exist yet, at least to her knowledge.

She glared down at her unrepentant stomach. "Don't you dare get non-athletic on me," she warned. French cuisine was like crack, and when it came to food, self-control was not her friend. But as long as she figured out some sort of physical activity she could do every day and keep in shape, then she could keep eating baguettes. There was no further motivation required.

When she finally withdrew from her own head and filed away her mental exercising brainstorm, Kayla looked up to see the hallway of boxes. She had no idea how she had gotten there, which was slightly concerning, but she had the next four or so months to figure out the building layout, so she tried not to worry about it. She stopped in front of Box Five and stared at the brass door handle.

"_I have a proposition for you, if you will deign to listen." _

The deep dark voice echoed in her memory. She reached out and ran a fingertip over the shiny number.

"Mademoiselle!"

"EEEEK!" Kayla squeaked, starting back from the door as if electrocuted.

Raoul de Chagny was approaching, a wide smile plastered with white brilliance across his handsome face. Kayla scowled at him. "Dude, no," she bit out sharply. "You can't just sneak up on me like that."

"I see you're still upset with me," the Vicomte said cheerfully, bowing as he stopped closer to her.

"Uh, yah, you _threatened_ me," Kayla emphasised.

"You do understand, I cannot allow Carlotta to take control over the Populaire," Raoul rationalized, ignoring her. "Christine has a marvelous voice, and should be allowed to sing. She deserves to be prima donna."

"I won't deny that, but dude, how is being a threatening asshole any different than screwing with people's heads?" Kayla retorted. "If you're so superior, try it the way that the contract suggested, instead of being a completely obvious Phantom impersonation." She resisted the urge to comment that she had been the contract's author.

"The Opera Ghost; a regrettable business, that," Raoul mused. "Most upsetting to my dear Christine. But he did not appear last night, so perhaps whoever the spectre was has been appeased. You didn't seem very surprised on that unfortunate night, did you, Mademoiselle Abbots?"

"Whether or not I was surprised is none of your concern," Kayla stated icily. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to find my crew." She turned her back on the nobleman and began to walk away. A strong hand grabbed her wrist.

"Now wait a moment," the Vicomte's voice coaxed amusedly.

Kayla whipped back around and five-starred him cleanly across the face.

He dropped her hand, gloved fingers rising up to his cheek in shock. There was a bright red handprint. Kayla, however, was confident that it wouldn't bruise; she was a strong girl, but even she could not hit hard enough to leave a semi-permanent mark.

"Don't. Freaking. Touch me," Kayla snarled.

"You are not yourself," Raoul spluttered, his hand still tracing his glowing cheek in disbelief. "Still worked up over the Buquet incident, I shouldn't wonder. I will forgive your nervousness."

"I said, DON'T TOUCH ME." Kayla growled. "You threaten me, you threaten my job, you imply… I don't know what the hell you were implying actually…. But I am not going to put up with that kind of behaviour. And if you ever try to touch me again, I will take out your nuts."

Raoul paused, then laughed. "You value your independence, I admire that," he smirked. "I will see you at the performance, I trust? Good afternoon."

Without waiting for a reply, he bowed and walked briskly back down the hall.

Kayla glared daggers at his retreating back. She waited for a few moments after he rounded the corner, and then slammed her head against the wall, wordlessly shrieking. _Screw the Vicomte! _

At this point, she truly sympathized with Erik; she had thought Raoul was adorable and sweet in the movie, kind of like a rather a really enthusiastic but stupid puppy. Now, however, she understood the Phantom's view completely: at the moment, Raoul was being a complete dick.

* * *

**Author's Note: Apologies for the excessive dialogue in this chapter, and lack of our little Phantom friend, but my imagination took a brief holiday, so I had a hard time figuring out what to do in this chapter. Anyway, here is this chapter, a day late - *guilty face* - and why was it late, you may ask? Because yesterday the universe attempted to screw over my life, including but not limited to waking up late, accidentally spilling an entire bowl of cereal and milk into my school bag, almost missing the bus, and then having the bus almost crash in an intersection. Apologies for the rant. I was more upset about the fact that I didn't eat breakfast than anything else. **

**Moving on, let me know what you thought, thanks for all the reviews and new follows and favourites, and to E-man-dy-S and Guest for the guest reviews last chapter. **

**I'll probably end up posting a shorter chapter at some point this weekend - homework permitting - because I feel guilty about posting late. Anyway, have an excellent day, all! Thanks for being awesome readers!**

**Tierney **


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's Note: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

30

Kayla spent the next couple of hours backstage, re-familiarizing herself with prop locations and the homes of the larger background pieces, all of which she had to memorize completely if she was to be more effective as her set crew's manager. Still working off her rage buzz, she delighted in punching every sandbag she passed, the weighty anchors for hanging pieces transformed for a moment into the smug face of the Vicomte.

Around six 'o' clock, Jamie had arrived to fetch her for dinner. The set crew was worried, according to him, but Kayla – who felt like she had risked her safety/not-getting-fired vow by punching Raoul – brushed off his concerns with a few vague comments of Carlotta needing costume help. It was obvious he did not believe her.

After dinner – at which point she was forced to pause her continuing recital of _Notre Dame_ right before the climatic capture of all the gypsies, much to the anger and dismay of the young ballerinas and even some of the cavaliers – she was trailed by a procession of dancers and the younger members of the set crew all the way to the dressing rooms. "No, you lovable morons, you can't be in here!" she barked, swatting at Clemens's pleadingly outstretched hand.

"But you're going to tell the story without us!" Jamie whined, looking longingly across the room at Meg, who was plumping up her cheeks with red blush at one of the ballerinas' makeup tables.

"No, get out!" Kayla insisted, shoving the chestnut haired boy playfully on the shoulder. "Run along, little imps!" She was hit from all sides by despairing glares. "You heard me; off you go! You guys have work to do, and so do I. I will meet you backstage I'll tell you the rest later, if you're really that interested."

None of the boys moved.

"GIT ON, YE WEE IDJITS!" Kayla roared, making violent shooing motions with her hands as the set crew began to back away. Turning her back on her retreating crew, she grinned broadly at the dancers surrounding her. "Okay, so Quasimodo and Phoebus just warned everyone that Frollo's on his way…" she recapped happily, and led the intrigued ballet corps into the dressing room.

* * *

Kayla was going to run out of stories if she wasn't careful.

The ballet rats positively devoured the story, coaxing the words out of her one after another, sitting enthralled on the floorboards as Kayla transformed their faces into those of their stage personas. A few of the young cavaliers slunk over to join the audience, but the seniors and remaining juniors were still listening attentively, moving about their area, putting on makeup, and stretching out lithe, flexible limbs, all the while with one ear turned towards Kayla's recital. If they requested a story every evening, she could potentially exhaust her memory archive. Maybe she would have to ration the Disney tales.

Now Kayla stood atop the catwalk, leaning out over the high, empty space, her boots anchored to the wooden boards and one hand gripping the coarse ropes. Surveying the ruckus of colour and song wafting up from below, she felt almost like an angel. An angel, watching from above, audience to a mad, mad world. _I am your angel of music_…

Kayla shoved that thought away and glanced down at the swirling hues below. The Countess and Count engaged in a mighty brawl of words, loud, caterwauling shrieks of music. Piangi and Carlotta, whatever Erik might think, did have a fantastic stage presence as a pair. Kayla chuckled to herself as the wildly costumed couple musically screamed at each other, faces mere inches apart as they broadcasted their argument to the rest of the audience. Kayla wondered how Christine had felt about performing this particular scene last night; Ms. Daäe was not a particularly argumentative individual, and heaven knew that she and Piangi did not have much for stage chemistry. Frowning, Kayla stared down at the young brunette soprano as she mimed out her actions onstage. Christine would need some work on her acting if she was to function appropriately as a Primadonna; she and Carlotta both did, but Erik would be loath to hear any criticism against his angel. Especially now that his student's name seemed to drive him into fits of rage. Kayla sighed, but watched and began to lash down the no-longer-required hanging pieces as the act soared to the concluding scene.

Once again, the opera went off without a hitch. The backstage environment was jubilant as the cast bowed before the standing, thundering masses. Carlotta swept off stage in another victory, the glances and congratulations sent her way grudging, yet slightly more respect lurked behind the words. The Primadonna had returned, and as of yet she had not screamed abuse at anyone. That would change come the rehearsal period for the next production, but for now the citizens of the Populaire was patiently tolerant towards their temperamental lead soprano.

Upon the realization that Christine, whom she had just congratulated, had been spotted by Raoul, whom she had bitchslapped not long ago, Kayla melted back into the crowd of people, only to run straight into the managers.

"Mademoiselle!" Andre cried excitedly, gripping her hand and kissing it enthusiastically. It did not feel like as much of an attack on her person as Raoul's stern grip on her wrist. _Let it go_, she told herself sternly. "We did not see you last night, but congratulations! A performance without a fault!"

"Monsieurs," Kayla acknowledged, dipping her head graciously. "I assure you, my crew worked harder than me this evening; I'm still getting used to the routine of it all."

"Never fear, it will come more naturally, let me assure you," Firmin assured confidently, nodding vigorously. "You have held up quite well this far, and your work can only improve."

_Unless I'm hanged_, Kayla thought fleetingly, but she silently laughed it off. No death for her from a Phantom hand yet. _I'm an invaluable piece of the puzzle now!_ she cooed mockingly to herself, wondering amusedly what Erik would say if she described herself as invaluable.

"I hope so," she said aloud, smiling at the two older men.

"We cannot be too optimistic," Andre stated, his pleased expression directly opposing his words. "But in the New Year, if all goes smoothly, I believe a celebration would be in order…"

Kayla beamed. It was October, but January felt so _close_. It was strange, as she had not been in Paris for long, but the snow outside was putting her in a winter mood. 'What kind of a celebration?" she asked, the undertone of her voice teasing. Neither of the managers noticed, and Kayla smirked.

"A grand ball!" Firmin exclaimed, pulling his business partner and Kayla further away from the crowd, and beginning to speak slightly more softly. A surprise, then, Kayla surmised. The masquerade was a surprise?

"But something unique!" Andre agreed, twirling the end of his grey mustache.

"A spectacle!" Firmin added. "A spectacle that will be the talk of all of Paris!"

"A masquerade?" Kayla interjected under her breath.

"The event of the season!" Andre supplemented. "What do you think, mademoiselle? What kind of a party would you expect from the Populaire?"

"I don't know… A masquerade?" Kayla repeated. "It would be a spectacle, certainly, and would still allow for dancing and whatever else it is customary to do at balls. I've never been to a ball, so I wouldn't know, but I do know that masquerades are incredible."

"A masquerade," Firmin breathed.

"A masquerade," Andre echoed, eyes shining.

"A masquerade!" they exclaimed in unison, teeth flashing excitedly.

"Perfect! And you, mademoiselle, you must help us plan!" Andre proposed, turning to Kayla with an expression that clearly communicated that the manager was – in the words of her former volleyball teammates – totally pumped.

"I couldn't possibly!" Kayla protested. "I'm a novice employee, I couldn't possibly plan such an event!"

"You are our employee, and you will help us plan. That's an order, mademoiselle," Firmin stated firmly, mustache twitching excitedly. "We will need someone who has been part of such masquerades if we are to host the greatest celebration France has ever seen!"

"And of course, you could help with the costuming!" Andre wheedled.

Oh heavens. Costumes. She could fake being the inspiration behind the masquerade costumes. She was in an alternate universe. She could design from the movie! _Copyright cannot not reach me here! And oh my goodness, I could design my own dress if I was able to go! And help Erik with Red Death!_ Such an opportunity would be fashion heaven.

"Well, then, I would be honoured," Kayla acquiesced sheepishly, bowing slightly.

"Mademoiselle Abbots will not fail us, Firmin," Andre cheered, clapping his fellow manager on the shoulder.

"A masquerade that will be the talk of social circles for years to come – just imagine it, Andre!" Firmin sighed dreamily. As the wistful expression slid slowly off his face, he turned to Kayla. "As long as the remainder of the season goes smoothly, you shall help us plan the celebrations," the dark haired manager confirmed. "We shall inform you of any required meetings at a later date."

"As long as it does not interfere with performance and rehearsal; my first priority is the crew, after all," Kayla bartered.

"Of course," Andre accepted.

"Merci, monsieurs," Kayla thanked profusely, dropping into the modified half-curtsey that she had developed specifically so she could look more like a lady while still wearing pants. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must go find my crew and Madame Giry so I can figure out our plans for tomorrow."

* * *

The plans, as it turned out, took all of twenty seconds to communicate and decide upon. The orchestra and ballet corps were all in relaxed, private practices, and in the spirit of saving energy for actual performances, Kayla decided that they would meet in the dining hall at nine the next morning; no reason for them to wake up any earlier than necessary.

She dismissed the crew and then wandered, yawning, back towards the office. Twisting and turning through the backstage, she slipped through the shelves like the ghost she was going to find. Tiptoeing down the stairs back to the chapelle, she sauntered over to the fake window and pulled out her key. After she unlocked the grillwork and pushed it out of the way, she stuck her head over the edge and peered into the alcove. Her hastily scribbled folded note was gone. Grinning, she scurried into the centre of the room and sat down on the stone floor. "Um… Erik? You there, buddy?" Kayla whispered.

Her query was met by only quiet echoes. She started humming _Angel of Music_.

"Do you have _any_ sense of propriety?"

Kayla chuckled, blue eyes flickering over the stone walls, trying to spot any place where the deep Voice could be originating from. "No, actually, but I do have a keen sense of irony. It's kind of a problem," she joked. "Did you get my note?"

"Yes," Erik's voice answered after a long pause. "I did."

"If I can't get a practice room or something, I can just work in the office, it's no problem," Kayla added quickly. "I just didn't want it to be found, ya know? Cause if the Vicomte or someone tries an inspection or something I'll be screwed…"

"Mademoiselle," Erik interrupted harshly. Kayla's mouth snapped shut. "Pray calm yourself; I have found a place."

Kayla hopped to her feet. She could feel her grin widening.

"If you would cease and desist in imitating a Cheshire cat, follow me," Erik snapped, the sound moving towards the exit.

"You read _Alice in Wonderland_?" Kayla shrieked, hands flying up to her face in delight. "It was just published, wasn't it? 1865?"

"Yes, of course. I take it you have read the novel also?" Erik replied dryly.

"Are you kidding? It's one of my favourites! But I didn't think it would be your type of book," Kayla confessed.

"Just because I am a monster does not mean I cannot enjoy a children's fantasy story," the voice snarled darkly, fading through the walls by the stairway. "Follow my voice. I will lead you to your studio."

"Oh for the love of…" Kayla moaned, striding impatiently to the grate and grabbing the pile of paper and art supplies before locking it once more. "I didn't mean it like that and you know it!" she argued, hefting the stack under her arm as she jogged to the stairs.

He audibly huffed, the noises moving through the wall beside her as she scurried to keep up with her invisible guide. "You're not a monster, you silly man!" she hissed quietly, keeping her eyes open for anyone lurking about. The backstage was completely empty, and a surreptitious look at her phone notified her that it was eleven 'o' clock. "You're not a monster!" she repeated when he did not reply.

"I am not going to have this argument with you, silly girl," Erik interjected sharply. "This way."

Kayla rolled her eyes and followed his voice down the hall he seemed to have turned down. She followed his short words of direction for what seemed like ages. They passed the Primadonna room and darted through narrow hallways and down several flights of stairs. They were deeper in the Opera House than Kayla had ever been. The gaslights on the walls gradually became farther apart, increasing the intensity of the shadows. Her own shade glided softly on ahead of her, the dull lights shifting her proportions until the shadow was terrifyingly skeletal. Feeling like she was lost in some strange sort of Netherworld, she followed Erik's sharp commands closely, nervous in the unfamiliar corridors. It was almost a shock when they finally halted in front of a narrow door with a rounded top and covered in chipping black paint. The door abruptly opened of its own accord. Kayla jumped back and yelped, a few pieces of newsprint slipping from under her arm and drifting like dying leaves to the floor.

"No one ventures this far into the Opera House," Erik's voice drifted silkily from inside the midnight mouth of the open doorway.

"Yes, I wonder why?" Kayla exclaimed sarcastically. The scarce bulbs behind her could cast no glow whatsoever into the darkness of the room Erik seemed to expect her to enter. Angrily, she snatched the fallen papers off the floor. "This isn't like the start of a horror story, not at all." A quiet whoosh announced the presence of a new flicker in the room, a tiny red flame suspended in the gloom. "That did _not_ help. Not. _At._ all," Kayla breathed, taking a small step forward. And another, and another. She was through the doorway.

The door slammed behind her. Kayla screamed.

"Hush," a voice coaxed in her ear. Kayla screamed again. A gloved hand clamped itself over her mouth. "We may be far from anyone's ears, but that is no reason to discard caution," Erik hissed.

_Merciful heavens. _

Kayla whimpered. The red candle cast a pale gleam of light over a table, but its light did not extend far enough for Kayla to see even her own shape, let alone the hand pressed over her cheek. "I will let you go," Erik said calmly. "And light another candle. Do not scream."

Nodding desperately, Kayla stood stock still, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. The pressure over her mouth vanished. The light of the candle vanished for a moment, followed by the hiss of another match and a sudden click. The room was suddenly, dimly illuminated by the larger candle next to its smaller counterpart on the smooth wooden table. Pale yellow light drifted over dusty wooden floorboards, casting Kayla's grey shadow out behind her. Looking around cautiously, she gazed at the phantom candles levitating in the reflections on the wide glass window, accompanied by her own doppelganger and another, darker shape behind her. "_Excorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…_" Kayla breathed under her breath, slowly turning around. Behind her, on the opposite wall, was a floor-to-ceiling mirror framed in twisting sheets of gold. The light of the candle cast flickers of topaz over her cheekbones, the light catching in her blue eyes and making her reflection look almost demonic. Her hair was even messier than it had been this morning, strands of blonde escaping from the bun and trailing down her neck.

"Did you just try to exorcise your reflection?" Erik's tone was slightly mocking. "How does a genteel lady like yourself even know of such things?"

"Maybe if you didn't try to perpetuate stereotypes and hold meetings in the freakiest part of the opera house," Kayla retorted, setting the pile of papers on the table before pacing closer to the mirror. "I wouldn't need to be unnecessarily paranoid."

Dark laughter echoed around the equally dark room. "You are full of surprises, mademoiselle," Erik declared amusedly.

"So this is my studio?" Kayla wondered, ignoring her burning cheeks and the Phantom's amusement. "I'll have to get the rest of my stuff… do I need a key?"

"The iron key you were provided for the chapelle will also work for this room," Erik explained. "It was one of the old skeleton keys; it should get you into almost any room in the opera house."

"Sweet," Kayla commented, taking another glance around. "I'll do that tomorrow. Do you mind showing me the way back to the Primadonna room? I can make it back to the dorms from there."

"Of course, mademoiselle," Erik allowed smoothly.

* * *

Curled under her blankets a short while later, Kayla stared sightlessly up at the ceiling, listening to the gentle breathing of the other dancers around her. It was October 2; eleven days left of Il Muto and two months and twenty nine days till the Masquerade. With no idea what was on its way in the days ahead, Kaya drifted into a worried sleep, wondering how she was going to balance all of these new responsibilities in the months to come.

* * *

**Author's Note: Good morning. I'm posting this at midnight because I felt guilty for updating so late, and also I couldn't sleep. Hurrah for insomnia. **

**So, I did end up getting Tumblr, and decision which may end up ruining my university career. I've been doing some random blogish posts and rebloging fandom related posts I find amusing. Anyway, that's another way to contact me if you have questions or comments or just want to talk. My url is _readpaintwrite. _**

**To everyone who read, followed, favourited, etc. the last chapter, thank you very much. Thanks also to E-man-dy-S, thetasigma, Guest, Samantha, Guest #2, and Guest #3 (N.W). Because I can't PM reply to guest reviews, I will try to start answering questions you may have at the end of the author's notes. **

**Therefore, to Nina Willis: If I had been following the book it probably would end up being a lot darker than I am planning for at this point, and the characters would be written quite differently, in accordance with their literary characteristics. As for writing new endings for Shakespearian plays, go for it. I love Shakespeare, and one of my main study techniques is modernizing the plays. I would think about how you personally would like the play to end, and work from there. :)**

**Thank you everyone for reading, and feel free to let me know what you thought or where you would like to see the story go from here! **

**Hugs,**

**Tierney **


	31. Chapter 31

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

31

The next two weeks of Il Muto passed by with no especial incidents. Christine and Carlotta performed lead on alternate nights, every performance garnering thunderous applause and audience approval. With all the money flowing into the coffers of the Populaire, Andre and Firmin wandered about the opera house in a state of utter bliss. The dancers were full of rumours of imminent rises in wages, even for the ballet rats. Kayla received her first paycheck on October 13th, following the final performance of Il Muto; ninety six francs. She had no idea if that was a lot of money or not, but she was getting free room and board pretty much, so Kayla decided not to worry.

The previous week, when she had confided in Madame Giry about Carlotta's party, the ballet mistress had promptly sent her to the Populaire's resident seamstresses. Agatha was a round, friendly elderly woman with fluffy cloud grey hair and a manner similar to that of _Downton Abbey_'s Mrs. Patmore. Marie-Clare was the opposite, rail thin and tall, with sharp limbs, a knobby hazel brown hair, and a shrewd face, but underneath the prickly exterior, Marie Clare was just as friendly as Agatha. Once Kayla introduced herself, explained who she was, and slyly inserted the name of the powerful ballet mistress, the two head seamstresses were more than pleased to help her. Especially when Baptiste's name came up, as Agatha was his grandmother. The Populaire seemed to be becoming a family affair.

And that's how Kayla came to be standing in front of the full length mirror in the dorm, fidgeting with the crisp fabric of the skirt of her new dress. It was simple, as per her own request; it would not bode well for her to too closely imitate a station she was not a part of, but it was still it was one of the fanciest dresses she had ever worn, surpassing even the short cherry red taffeta she had worn for her grade twelve graduation. Her tanned skin, paling now after almost two weeks of exposure to the start of Parisian autumn and winter, looked almost creamy next to the deep azure of the dress. The gown was almost floor-length, brushing the tops of the newly-polished work boots that comprised the entire shoe section of her wardrobe. The A-line skirt fell from her waist in sharp yet graceful folds, and the bodice hugged her torso comfortably, though the corset beneath – laced as loosely as humanly possible – diminished the comfort aspect somewhat. The neckline swept straight across her collarbone, curving over her shoulders, and ending in a cleanly cut triangle between her shoulder blades. Her shoulder joints were capped with soft royal blue bows, perching on her shoulders like butterfly wings. The sleeves were short, and only reached down a couple of inches, hugging only the very tops of her biceps. A wide sash in the same shade as the shoulder bows was tied about her waist.

As it was Friday, the set crew was out celebrating the conclusion of an utterly successful performance period. They had sworn to Kayla that they would behave responsibly, and Kayla had privately charged the seniors to ensure that the merriment did not progress too far. The ballet rats, male and female, had all been sent home that afternoon for the whole of the next week to visit their families and hand over their wages to their guardians. Some of the ballerinas and the cavaliers were at a pub down the street, commemorating another triumphantly completed show in the season. The most committed of the corps, the primas, the leads, and most elite seniors in particular, had holed themselves in one of the dance practice rooms with a pile of food and contraband choreography lists from Madame Giry's office, already starting to practice for the roles and solos they wanted for the next opera.

Meg Giry had held off accompanying her fellow seniors to help Kayla get ready. "I can't believe you are actually going to spend the evening with La Carlotta of your own free will," the young blonde remarked disbelievingly, shifting the knot of Kayla's sash so the line of fabric was completely straight.

"She's lonely," Kayla commented offhandedly, leaning closer to the mirror to swipe some of her personal stash of pale blue and silver eye shadow over her eyelids. "She's got fans, but she doesn't really have good friends."

"Well, she is awful, it is no wonder," Meg, said flippantly, running a brush through Kayla's streaky dark blonde hair and dividing it into three sections before beginning to braid.

Kayla slipped her eye shadow back into her bag before turning and staring exasperatedly at the sixteen year old ballerina.

"What?" Meg demanded, firmly twisting Kayla's head back to its previous position and continuing to weave the locks.

"You can't just say something like that, it's rude," Kayla scolded maternally. "For heaven's sakes, have you learned anything about treating people the way you'd like to be treated?"

"Carlotta's simply awful to everyone!" Meg protested.

"No denying that," Kayla allowed. "But she's not awful to me."

"You stood up to her, she knows you will not allow her to treat you badly," Meg said dubiously.

"Yes, but I'm also nice. Sarcastic, but civil," Kayla added, staring at her own reflection as the tiny ballerina's hands moved gracefully through her hair.

Sweeping the completed braid into a satin azure ribbon, Meg deftly twisted it into a firm knot on the back of Kayla's head. "Still, I don't know how you do it," she sighed, tying another braid around the bun as the younger girl slid in some hairpins through the braids to hold the style in place.

"Well, to answer your question with a question, why are _you_ friends with _Christine_?"

The ballerina paused at Kayla's question. "She needs me," Meg replied after a long pause, stepping back and circling Kayla, carefully examining the details of Kayla's outfit.

"Well, I think that Carlotta needs me," Kayla explained firmly, cocking her head to stare at her own reflection again. "Christine's got you for a friend, and she's going to be stronger because of it. Carlotta doesn't have that luxury, and maybe, just maybe, I can soften her up a bit."

Meg shrugged, brushing an invisible speck of dust off of Kayla's sleeve. "Well, I admire you for trying," she admitted, tilting her head critically at Kayla's hair. "That's the best I can do," Meg announced, throwing up her hands.

Kayla looked herself up and down. "Thanks Meg, I owe you one. Do I need a hat or something? Is that a thing at social events?" she pondered.

Meg shook her head. "You will be fine, don't worry," she assured, shifting one of the shoulder bows so it was straight. "Are you going to be okay? You will be spending the whole evening with La Carlotta, after all."

Grinning, Kayla turned to look at Meg. "Two words for you, my doubting friend," she smirked.

"And what would those be?"

"Free. Food."

* * *

As the managers had also been invited, Andre and Firmin graciously offered Kayla a seat in their carriage. So Kayla, though still feeling rather awkward, was not alone as she ascended the stone steps to Carlotta's grand front door. Her blue cloak wrapped tightly around her, her boots thumped on the stone steps as snowflakes drifted slowly down from the grey clouds above. The sun sank below the horizon, framed by shades of rose and lavender. Swinging open seemingly of its own accord, the wooden double doors gleamed in the light of the gas lampposts. A plum-liveried butler greeted them formally as they stepped inside.

Her cloak was whisked away instantly, and Kayla was thankful that she had not brought her phone, because she 100% would have stored it in her cloak pocket. Raising her hand self-consciously to her hair, she stared around her in awe. Every surface had been polished until it shone, glass and wood and marble all reflecting light and colours like mirrors. The foyer was a mass of people, chattering and laughing, black coat tails and rainbow gowns swishing back and forth, kaleidoscopic. Kayla tugged at her azure skirt, feeling rather plain next to the elegant confections of silk and lace that surrounded her.

"ABBOTS!"

Her arm was yanked to the side by a firm hand. Looking in the direction she was being pulled, she became aware of the red-haired diva grinning at her. Carlotta. Grinning. It took a couple of seconds for Kayla to completely process the unexpected facial expression.

"You're late! But you made it!" the Primadonna stated, almost excitedly.

"It's been a slow night, then?" Kayla queried sarcastically, gazing once more at the busy room. "Surely there are more interesting people than me to associate with."

"No," Carlotta snapped, rolling her eyes. "Managers," she greeted stiffly, peering over Kayla's shoulder at the simpering older men.

"Signora, you have our congratulations on this auspicious day," Andre declared dramatically, arm sweeping out as he bowed.

"And our tokens of appreciation," Firmin added, indicating the gigantic, gold-papered packages he held in his arms.

"_Grazie_, monsieurs," Carlotta acknowledged, sounding bored. An impatient flick of her hand signalled the sudden appearance of two footmen, who appropriated the packages before disappearing again. "Thank you for coming. Now, if you will excuse me and Miz Abbots. Enjoy da party, monsieurs," she inserted more cheerfully, grabbing Kayla's arm again and whisking her away into the crowd. Kayla saw the managers staring confusedly at the two women as they vanished behind a screen of guests.

"Look at you!" Carlotta exclaimed when the diva deemed they had moved far enough from the managers. "You are not wearing your ridiculous pants!"

"I do have some sense of propriety," Kayla returned dryly.

Carlotta's amber brown eyes shifted up and down Kayla's form approvingly. "Look at dat! You have a figure today!" she commented.

Kayla blushed. "And you're short!" she snarled. Carlotta shared her height with the actress who portrayed her, Minnie Driver, who was 5'8. Really Carlotta wasn't all that much shorter than Kayla, but she was too flustered to come up with a better insult. "Gees, what was I just saying about propriety?"

Carlotta cackled. "I am not shorter today!" she crowed, lifting the skirt of her long, fluffy violet and gold-laced gown so Kayla could see her bright purple heels.

"Okay, fine, not today," Kayla admitted, letting a small smile escape.

"I tease! You and me, we are mean! But we are mean together!" Carlotta nodded emphatically, looping her violet silk clad arm through Kayla's bare one. Kayla burst out laughing.

* * *

The laughter did not stop there. Everyone could say whatever they wanted about Carlotta's mannerisms, but the diva could host one hell of a party. Every room in the mansion was nearly full, except for the bedrooms upstairs, which were strictly off limits. The guests were wildly varied, some being Carlotta's fans, while others, likely to Christine, Meg, and Raoul's eternal shock, were Carlotta's friends. Kayla was introduced to group after group of comrades, including an entourage of Italian cousins, one of whom looked even more like Minnie Driver than Carlotta herself.

Dinner was served in an elegant banquet hall, on long mahogany dining tables. Rich brown damask curtains framed the three tall, narrow windows looking out onto the frosted ivory gardens. The party was too large for one table, so the guests were split between two different tables. Kayla, from her spot between Carlotta, who was at the head of the first table, and Carlotta's brown haired cousin Allegra, whom Kayla was privately referring to as "Minnie", saw Raoul and Christine sitting halfway down the other table, across from the managers. The other table was led by two other cousins, Delfina and Enrico, who were boisterously leading an energetic conversation about French politics, a dry topic made incredibly humorous by the two good-natured Italians. Because Kayla faced the other table, she was able to spare the occasional quick glance at the gold-toffee haired patron and his pale brunette companion. The nobleman was in dress uniform, a military style red coat with gleaming brass buttons and black shoulders, and sharp black trousers and boots. Raoul was intent on the conversation, leaning forward over his plate and hazel eyes gleaming intently as he spoke to the rest of the table. Christine was smiling proudly, her fingers unconsciously looping around the gold chain around her neck, the ring it held hidden under the low collar of her pastel lilac gown. Kayla caught Carlotta glaring at the other soprano more than once. "Hey, let's be civil now," she hissed at the prima donna when the red haired Italian scowled over at her nemesis for the third time in under a minute.

"She's wearing my family colour," Carlotta hissed back.

"Too bloody bad," Kayla replied sharply. "Red's my second favourite colour after blue, and it's the colour of my university crest, but you don't see me heading over to rip de Chagny's throat out."

Carlotta snickered. "Let's wait until after dessert," she whispered. "Then we will reclaim our colours. We could accost them in the garden."

"And bury their bodies in the snow," Allegra interjected, leaning in from Kayla's other side to grin conspiratorially at the two other women.

There was a pause. "You have good taste in family," Kayla announced to Carlotta finally, barely holding back her laughter as she nodded approvingly at Allegra.

* * *

After the delicious five courses of supper, including delicate individual plates of fluffy tiramisu and whipped cream filled cannoli, the guests all adjourned to the ballroom on the opposite side of the house. Kayla was full of food, due to the fact that Allegra and Carlotta took it upon themselves to make sure their younger guest was well-fed. She felt like a child with all the adults around her plying her with second helpings, which was strange, as she was not the youngest guest; Christine was. Nevertheless, an excessively fed Kayla was hit with a wave of sleepiness as she walked into the ballroom beside Carlotta.

A string quartet was playing their instruments in the corner of the room. A crystal chandelier, smaller and more delicate than the infamous one at the Populaire, twinkled gently from the gilded ceiling, reflecting shards of golden light onto the gleaming maple floors and the mirrors that formed two of the walls. The wall that contained the door was covered in swirling gilt gold carvings and panels of polished wood, while the opposite wall was pure glass windows, looking out over the snow covered lawns of the estate, and a pair of firmly shut French doors.

As the music swung into a smooth waltz, Piangi approached Carlotta, bowed, and swept her off onto the dance floor. Many of the other guests quickly paired off, and Kayla awkwardly turned towards the chairs lined around the edges of the room. A hand lightly tapped her on the shoulder. "Pardon me, but may I have this dance, mademoiselle?" Enrico asked politely, curly black head inclined as he bowed with one olive hand outstretched. Kayla blushed.

"Okay, but you'll have to forgive me, I don't know much about French dances," she agreed bashfully, putting her much paler hand in his.

"I am Italian, mademoiselle," he laughed. "I know naught of French balls either. We shall muddle through it together."

* * *

**Author's Note: School totally got away from me last week, but it's Reading Week now, and therefore I shall have more time to write. Maybe I'll even get another chapter up today, who knows. I was going to have Carlotta's party just be one chapter, but it was a beast so I'm splitting it into two. **

**Thanks to everyone who read, followed, favourited, and reviewed, including E-man-dy-S, Guest (DetectiveOfTheOpera), and Guest. And in response to DetectiveOfTheOpera's question, yes, I am a Whovian. :) **

**Anyway, hope you guys had a good weekend, and thank you for reading this far. Feel free to review or PM with questions or comments, and follow or favourite if the mood strikes you. Feel free to follow me on tumblr if you wish, and let me know if you want to see updates or anything of that sort on there! My url is readpaintwrite. **

**Thank you all for being awesome!**

**Tierney **


	32. Chapter 32

**Author's Note: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera. Nor do I own Primadonna Girl; that belongs to Marina and the Diamonds. **

* * *

32

She spent three dances with Enrico as a partner, and quite enjoyed herself. Enrico was Carlotta's second cousin, and lived in England. He was studying English Literature and Classics at Oxford, which allowed for the friendly conversation that thrived between fellow Arts students. Thanks to her Greek and Roman Studies courses from first and second year, she was able to quite easily follow his enthusiastic discourse on Greek mythology. Enrico seemed pleasantly surprised that she knew much of what he did, and because they had so much to talk about, any awkwardness dissipated almost immediately.

"Mademoiselle Abbots!" The eager, chipper voice came from right behind her.

Kayla sighed and tilted her head back so she could watch Raoul and Christine's approach from her peripherals. "Vicomte," she greeted flatly, turning to face them as Enrico spun her.

"I am quite surprised to see you here, mademoiselle!" Raoul exclaimed, holding Christine's hand tightly as he strolled forward. "I did not believe that you and La Carlotta were on such good terms."

"Who I am and am not on good terms with is really none of your concern," Kayla replied dryly. "Hello, Christine, nice to see you," she addressed in a much friendlier tone. "Relieved to be done with a show?"

"Yes, I rather am," Christine agreed softly, gently fidgeting with her white gloves. "It was quite a lot of work."

"But you're done, and you did quite well, considering it's your first big stint as prima donna," Kayla affirmed encouragingly.

Enrico coughed next to her. Kayla frowned at him. "What?" He tilted his chin subtly towards the couple in front of them. "What?" she repeated. He repeated the motion.

"Oh. Um, Christine, Raoul, this is Enrico Giudicelli, one of La Carlotta's cousins," Kayla presented awkwardly. Bloody etiquette. She had totally screwed that one up. "Enrico, may I present the Vicomte de Chagny and Christine Daäe, the second lead soprano at the Opera Populaire."

"A pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle," Enrico said politely, bowing and kissing Christine's gloved hand. "Sir," he greeted shortly, smiling at the nobleman with a rather cold pleasantry. "Being sole patron of the Populaire is suiting you well, I trust."

"Yes, in fact it is," Raoul replied, his tone courteous. "I was, however, wondering if I might persuade you to lend me Mademoiselle Abbots for a dance or two."

"Um, no, I couldn't possibl-"

"Certainly," Enrico allowed graciously, not noticing Kayla's wide-eyed 'please no' expression. "If I might have the pleasure of partnering your lovely companion for the same amount of time."

"It would be my honour, Monsieur Giudicelli," Christine accepted gracefully, with a curtsey. And before Kayla could blink, she and Christine had switched positions. Christine, much to Kayla's annoyance, looked perfectly calm about the whole situation. The soprano was a whole four years younger than she was; was Christine just born with all the knowledge of social situations and etiquette?!

"I will come and retrieve you shortly," Raoul beamed at his secret-fiancé. Christine smiled at him adoringly. Kayla resisted the urge to gag.

"Make sure to bring Mademoiselle Abbots with you when you do," Enrico teased with thinly veiled warning. "It would not do to lose one of my dear cousin's special guests."

"Very well, monsieur," Raoul acquiesced. With that, Kayla found herself suddenly swept away into the swirling crowd.

As the two moved into an empty space, Raoul firmly spun Kayla to face him, and deftly positioned her hands, one on his shoulder and one gripped in his. The nobleman's other hand slipped to the small of her back. "Forgive me for repeating myself, but I am quite surprised to see you at this particular gathering," he smiled, pulling her slightly closer to him.

Kayla locked her elbows, preventing her from moving any closer to the Vicomte's chest than necessary. He looked at her askance before trying again, but Kayla kept her arms in locked position. "No thank you," she said sternly. "Don't bother trying it again, my dad taught me how to dance and how to maintain personal space while doing so."

Raoul's eyes narrowed slightly, but he allowed her to move back a bit. "How did you garner an invitation to this party?" he inquired, expertly settling into the rhythm set by the music and the other dancers around them.

"Well, how did you get an invitation?" Kayla shot back.

Raoul laughed, the deep sound pealing like a bell. "I am the patron of the Populaire, mademoiselle," he stated soothingly. "And part of one of the most powerful families in Paris. It is only natural that I am invited."

"And it's not natural that I'm invited?" Kayla demanded, trying to keep herself calm by focusing on the sounds of her skirt as she stepped from side to side.

"It is not unnatural; you do have a friendly relationship with the managers, and you are becoming an integral manager at the Populaire, but you are one of the only guests here without a title or high societal standing," Raoul chuckled.

Kayla raised a scathing eyebrow. "Enrico doesn't have a title, and he's a university student, just like me," she snarled.

"True, but Enrico is a member of the Giudicelli family, and probably heir to some large portion of their family's estate in Italy."

"So it's 'cause I'm a poor little set crew girl, then, is it?" she returned with sickening sweetness. "Forgive me, but I don't see why you, a rich, titled Vicomte, would be dancing with me, then. Aren't you afraid that I'll spoil your pristine reputation?"

"Now, now, mademoiselle, no need to be so defensive," Raoul reassured.

"Unfortunately you've made it clear that I have every need to defend myself," Kayla commented coldly.

They danced for a few minutes in frosty silence.

Raoul smiled down at her. "You are quite spirited, aren't you?" he mused.

"For the love of Crowley, what are you playing at?" Kayla hissed, releasing his shoulder and pulling her hand out of his. "You insult me and follow it up with a creepily delivered compliment. _What are you playing at_?"

Before her brain could even process the movement, her hand was back on Raoul's shoulder and her other hand was trapped in his iron grip. "You have spirit, I have power and influence," he pronounced silkily. "We could make a good team, you and I, if only you could see it."

"I have no interest in being even remotely associated with you outside of work," Kayla growled as she struggled to pull her hand back. "Not as friends, not as business partners, nothing. Besides, you're engaged, you twit."

He stopped short. He and Kayla stood frozen, like ice statues, as the colourful shapes of the other guest moved like shadows around them. Kayla's gaze flickered briefly to her ensnared hand trapped in Raoul's, her paling skin almost like a beacon between the bloody crimson of his uniform jacket and the azure of her dress. She was vaguely reminded of the American flag, and almost chuckled, despite the stress of the situation.

"Who told you?" Raoul whispered dangerously.

"No one," Kayla muttered. "I live with a bunch of sixteen year old girls, gossip spreads."

Raoul sighed, then abruptly smiled. "Plans change, little one," he teased. "Even if I am engaged, it does not change the fact that we would make a good team." His hand drifted an inch downward, closer to her hip. Kayla's blue eyes bulged.

"Abbots!"

"Oh, thank you God," Kayla murmured, relaxing slightly as her ears caught the tones of Carlotta's voice.

The diva approached like a violet storm-cloud. Sashaying saucily up to Kayla and Raoul, she cocked her head and placed her hands on her hips. "Vicomte," she acknowledged.

"Signora," Raoul dipped his head politely. "Many regards on this special day."

"_Grazie_," Carlotta shrugged. "Pardon me, but I will be stealing Miz Abbots now." With that, she grabbed Kayla's arm and escorted her forcefully away from the perplexed Vicomte.

"You are a blessed Angel of the Lord," Kayla complimented gratefully. Her pulse was pattering in her ears, and her hands started shaking. "I thought I was going to have get violent."

"I'm not letting that ignorant fop treat my guest like that in my 'ouse," Carlotta declared fiercely. "Not today. And he's already trying to seduce Daäe, so he should not be trying to seduce two little girls at once."

Kayla choked. "Carlotta! That's how rumours get started!" she admonished.

"The rumour was already thriving before I said dat," Carlotta excused flippantly.

Kayla hung her head and sighed. "Well thanks anyway," she repeated.

"No one threatens my ally," Carlotta nodded, patting Kayla on the shoulder.

* * *

Kayla spent the remainder of the dance hidden in a cluster of chattering Italian cousins, concealed on all sides by tall, dark, brown and black up-dos, olive skin, and yellow, red, and orange silk and lace. They were loud and boisterous, drawing attention to themselves but not to the twenty year old Canadian disguised in their midst. Having been accepted as a friend of Carlotta's, the friendly protection of the Italian cousins extended over Kayla like a rowdy, accented personal guard. They included her in conversation and made her feel perfectly comfortable, subtly standing on tip toe and huddling even closer together whenever the Vicomte came within ten feet of their gathering place in the corner of the ballroom.

A gong echoed from the doorway, sternly overpowering the pause in the music. "If the guests could please gather in the music room for the presentation of the gifts," a butler announced.

Kayla gulped. "Don't worry, all the gifts will be opened first, you have some time before performances start," Allegra said comfortingly, nudging Kayla supportively on the shoulder.

"What's this I hear? Mademoiselle Abbots will be performing?" Enrico exclaimed as he appeared next to them. "Shall I get the lady some champagne to steady her nerves?"

"Thank you, but no; I shall be remaining stone cold sober as long as the Vicomte remains in the same building," Kayla explained tersely.

"Ah. Troubles with the nobility; that would explain your disappearance," Enrico nodded sagely.

"Sorry about that," Kayla apologized.

"No need for remorse, mademoiselle; Ms. Daäe was a perfectly charming dance partner," Enrico winked. Delfina smacked the back of his head.

When all the guests had gathered in the music room, practically shoulder to shoulder in the barely-large-enough space, Carlotta regally lowered herself into an elegant wing backed chair next to the grand piano. Adjusting her wide skirt neatly around her, she folded her hands in her lap and smiled out at the crowd. "Let the presentations begin!" she announced proudly.

One by one, each elegantly wrapped parcel was delivered to the diva. Exquisite boxes of chocolates, elaborate and gaudy jewellery, colourful paintings of the soprano, cosmetics, pink-bowed yipping toy poodles, and other extravagant items found their way to the growing pile at the prima donna's feet. The torn shining papers and silky bows were scattered around the chair like a mountain of fallen leaves. The managers had contributed two tall, broad white ceramic Japanese vases, engraved with a silver cross-hatched pattern and blue, red and gold phoenixes, while Raoul, and supposedly Christine, gifted an embroidered gold and fan, which, if Kayla's memory served her correctly, could go quite nicely with the diva's similarly hued masquerade costume. It would possibly kill Raoul to know that he was inadvertently supplying the diva with the guarantee of future attention.

When all the gifts had been unwrapped, of which there were countless, the performances started. Most of the cousins performed, groups of them singing intricate Italian medleys that had Carlotta laughing out loud, while the remainder of the French-born guests listened in amused confusion. Kayla could tell from a tilt of Allegra's black brow that the song was meant to be humorous, and she laughed even though she could not understand the lyrics.

Enrico stood and recited _The Jabberwocky_ in a dramatic tone, making the weird and whimsical poem seem like an epic ballad. Kayla was grinning like the Cheshire Cat at the familiar poem, while Christine was listening to what – to her ears – was a new poem, with rapt brown eyes, her lips parted as the foreign words swam through the room. The intricacies of the poem, however, seemed to go right over the Vicomte's head, as Raoul listened with a perplexed expression on his handsome face.

Then Carlotta nodded at Kayla, smiling, half encouraging and half malicious. _Oh shit._ Her turn.

She walked forward on shaking legs, feeling incredibly thankful that her boots had barely any heel. Enrico clapped her supportively on the shoulder as she passed him. Focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, Kayla moved steadily towards Carlotta and the grand piano in the centre of the room. Once there, she turned and curtseyed to Carlotta before addressing the rest of the room. "Forgive me in advance, I'm not a musician, but my options were pretty limited," she requested formally. Friendly laughter rippled through the room. "Nor am I as talented in the singing department as our friend La Carlotta, so forgive me that trespass as well," she added. More chuckles followed this pronouncement.

Kayla slid onto the piano bench and settled her hands over the ivory keys, mentally picturing the progression of chords she had pieced out in her empty studio. Taking a deep breath, she pressed her fingertips down on the first chord and began.

"_Primadonna girl, yeah  
All I ever wanted was the world  
I can't help that I need it all  
The primadonna life, the rise and fall  
You say that I'm kinda difficult  
But it's always someone else's fault  
Got you wrapped around my finger, babe  
You can count on me to misbehave…_"

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Enrico, Allegra, Delfina, and the other Italian cousins laughing hysterically. Christine looked horrified. But she put the reactions out of her mind and pressed on, making her voice as energetic and sassy as possible.

"_Primadonna girl!_

_Would you do anything for me?_

_Buy a big diamond ring for me?_

_Would you get down on your knees for me?_

_Pop that pretty question right now, baby?_"

Piangi glanced at Carlotta out of the corner of his eye and blushed. Kayla inwardly cheered.

"_Beauty queen on a silver screen,_

_Living life like I'm in a dream_

_I know I've got a big ego_

_I really don't know why it's such a big deal, though_…"

A glance at Raoul showed a mesmerized Vicomte. They made eye contact and Kayla's fingers almost faltered. A swear word flashed through her head.

"_Ooh! And I'm sad to the core, core, core,_

_Yeah! Every day is a chore, chore, chore,_

_Wow! When you give, I want more, more, more_

_I wanna be adored!_

'_Cause I'm a primadonna girl, yeah,_

_All I ever wanted was the world_

_I can't help that I need it all;_

_The primadonna life, the rise and fall_

_You say that I'm kinda difficult_

_But it's always someone else's fault_

_Got you wrapped around my finger, babe_

_You can count on me to misbehave…_"

She grinned at the white keys, realizing the reason Erik loved music so much; she knew she was no musician, but this was fun. Kayla sped up her fingers, playing each note with enough energy to make up for the lack of percussion.

"_Primadonna girl, fill the void up with celluloid, _

_Take a picture, I'm with the boys_

_Get what I want 'cause I ask for it_

_Not because I'm really that deserving of it_

_Living life like I'm in a play_

_In the limelight I want to stay_

_I know I've got a big ego_

_I really don't know why it's such a big deal, though_

_Ooh! Going up, going down, down, down_

_Yeah! Anything for the crown, crown, crown_

_Wow! When the lights dimming down, down, down_

_I spin around..._"

She took her hands on the keys and drummed a riff of rhythm on the top of the piano. The cousins applauded. Grinning, she returned her fingers to the keyboard and sang again,

"_Cause I'm a primadonna girl, yeah_

_All I ever wanted was the world_

_I can't help that I need it all_

_The primadonna life, the rise and fall_

_You say that I'm kinda difficult_

_But it's always someone else's fault_

_Got you wrapped around my finger, babe_

_You can count on me to misbehave_

_Primadonna girl, yeah_

_All I ever wanted was the world_

_I can't help that I need it all_

_The primadonna life, the rise and fall_

_You say that I'm kinda difficult_

_But it's always someone else's fault_

_Got you wrapped around my finger, babe_

_You can count on me to misbehave_

_Primadonna girl!_"

There was a slightly tense pause as Kayla's voice faded and the final notes died away from the belly of the piano. Carlotta stood, stepping over piles of jewelry boxes and puppies as she walked towards Kayla. Finally deciding to announce its presence, her survival instinct ever-so-helpfully pointed out that perhaps that particular song was not the best gift to give to a vain woman whom she was still on somewhat shaky terms with. Click, click, click went the metronome of Carlotta's purple heels as she moved to stand above the seated set manager. Kayla stared up at the primadonna and tried to stay calm. Their gazes remained locked for an infinite moment.

"I love it," Carlotta declared, leaning down and hugging Kayla violently. "You silly girl, you."

Kayla sighed with relief and hugged her back. The guests burst into applause.

* * *

There were a few other performances afterwards, but Kayla readily admitted to not paying attention, as she spent the remainder of the evening seated cross-legged on the ground next to Carlotta's throne, playing with the three fluffy puppies that had been given to the diva. She named all three: Minnie, Jeff, and Fitzherbert.

It was half past one in the morning when the party began to die down, but the Italian cousins were still drinking and laughing merrily as the managers approached Kayla to inform her of their departure. She gave the puppies each one last scratch behind the ears, and the three tiny fur-balls whimpered when she stood. "Give me a moment, I would like to thank La Carlotta," she informed the managers tiredly.

"Take all the time you need, mademoiselle," Andre agreed. "Please thank her for us when you find her. We shall wait in the foyer."

Kayla nodded and made sure the puppies were settled in their little blanketed basket before moving out of the room to begin her search.

Carlotta was reclining on a couch in one of the sitting rooms as a cluster of miscellaneous guests gathered around her, likely fans if their awestruck expressions were any indication. Kayla paused, unsure, just outside the doorway. When the diva glanced her way, she immediately clambered to her feet and shot over, ignoring the people who were cooing over her. Most of the guests in the room sent Kayla looks of mistrustful, jealous rage. Kayla grinned cheekily back.

"Abbots!" Carlotta shrieked, barreling towards her like a purple locomotive. "Where are you going? You can't be leaving!"

"The managers are heading back, so the bell tolls for me, I'm afraid," Kayla shrugged. Carlotta glared at her. "Hey, I've got no choice in the matter!" she rebuked teasingly.

Carlotta hugged her, curls of cherry red hair entwining with loosening strands of streaked blonde. "Thank you for the song," she mentioned, her voice slightly muffled. "It was tongue-in-cheek and I loved it."

"I'm glad," Kayla replied sincerely, squeezing the diva back.

Carlotta suddenly stilled. "You need to go. Now," she said firmly, letting go of Kayla and nudging her towards the door.

"Wha-"

"I just saw the Vicomte, he's alone and he just saw us," Carlotta whispered grimly. "I will visit you at da Populaire tomorrow, but now you should run."

Kayla took a quick glance out of her peripherals. The Vicomte, with Christine nowhere in sight, was headed down the hall towards the sitting room. "Thank you, my dearest love!" she cried dramatically, giving a sweeping bow.

"Go, you silly girl!" Carlotta squawked, making shooing motions with her hands.

Kayla laughed and hastily retreated.

Her boots thumping on the marble floor of the foyer, she breezed past the waiting managers. "Sorry, gentlemen, I think I'm going to pass out from exhaustion, I'm going outside," she rattled off hurriedly, thankfully grabbing her cerulean cloak that Minette held out to her before throwing open the door and heading out into the cold.

"Our carriage is just outside, mademoiselle!" Firmin called after her.

Scurrying lightly down the stairs, she scanned the queue of coaches for the Populaire coat of arms and the bay horses they had arrived with. Once spotted, she threw open the door and climbed ungracefully in, pulling in her long skirts in after her. Huddling into the corner, she threw her cloak around her, shut her eyes, and tried to regulate her breathing.

She heard the boisterous timbres of the two managers echoing in the snowy air as they clomped down the stairs. She heard them moving closer to the carriage and relaxed for a moment. "Monsieurs!" came a muffled voice.

"Vicomte!" Andre replied distantly.

_Dammit_, thought Kayla.

"I just needed to have a quick word with Mademoiselle Abbots before you leave," the nobleman requested politely.

_Over my dead body. _

"Oh, yes, of course Vicomte," Firmin fawned, pulling open the carriage door and peering inside.

"Quiet, quiet, Firmin!" Andre hushed, clambering into the carriage and peering at Kayla's immobile form. She breathed in and out steadily. "She is asleep, Vicomte," Andre whispered, sticking his head back out of the coach. "She must not be used to the nightlife in France. You'll forgive us, Vicomte, if we do not wake her; she's worked so hard this past show period."

"Of course," Raoul allowed chivalrously. "Let the lady sleep. I shall drop into the Populaire tomorrow, then, if it is not too much trouble."

"Of course not, Patron," Firmin blustered proudly.

Kayla heard Raoul moving back up the steps to the house, calling for Christine, as the managers settled themselves into the seats and signalled the driver to leave.

_Fake sleeping_, Kayla thought smugly. _Works every time._

* * *

**Author's Note: That chapter was a beast! But there we go, Carlotta's birthday is finished and we are not 1/6 of the way through Elysian Peace! (I know that doesn't sound like a lot, but now that I know I can get through a week or two per chapter, it's going to make it that much easier to get to the Masquerade!)**

**The song Kayla sings is Primadonna Girl by Marina and the Diamonds. The first time I ever heard that song I immediately thought of Carlotta... It fits her so well. I highly recommend listening to it. **

**Thanks to everyone who read, followed, favourited, and reviewed last chapter, and to E-man-dy-S and DetectiveOfTheOpera as well for your kind words. Please feel free to continue being such awesomely active readers in this regard! **

**In case anyone was even remotely interested, I've included links below for the vases that the managers gave to Carlotta, as well as for Kayla's dress.. in the image the dress is yellow, but I'm sure you can use your imaginations to make it azure. **

**Anyway, thanks for the support, guys! I love you all!**

**Tierney**

**readpaintwrite**

**The vases:** imgres?imgurl=http%3A%2F% %2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2010%2F11% &amp;imgrefurl=http%3A%2F% %2F2010%2F11%2Fpair-japanese-imperial-satsuma-vases-c%2F&amp;docid=EpaIR3JhXtm3aM&amp;tbnid=WE-y0_FcBuscKM%3A&amp;w=826&amp;h=633&amp;ei=qQ7lVPHfPIauogS5n4GoBw&amp;ved=0CAIQxiAwAA&amp;iact=c

**Kayla's dress:** .


	33. Chapter 33

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. Warning: brief language, nothing too crazy, but just in case...**

* * *

33

She managed to avoid the Vicomte for over an entire week. The day following the party, Carlotta arrived at the Populaire at eight 'o' clock in the morning and dragged her out of the opera house and into a carriage. The diva had taken Kayla to shops in the inner city, buying her clothes and hair ribbons without paying any heed to Kayla's protests. Around noon, after pulling Kayla through what felt like every dress shop in Paris, the diva led her into a teahouse, and they had tea and pastries and crepes. When the two women finally returned to the Populaire, Kayla with packages of neatly wrapped clothing items stuck under her arm, they were greeted at the door by the wandering managers, who regretfully informed her she had just missed the Vicomte. Raoul apparently stopped in about an hour earlier and inquired quite adamantly after Kayla's whereabouts before departing with Christine. Carlotta looked pleasantly smug at this news, and Kayla was incredibly grateful. Thus, she had successfully avoided Raoul's attempt to visit her, and was now in possession of some new work shirts, blouses to go with her skirt, and colourful silken hair ribbons. The last item filled her with glee; much to her despair, her supply of hair elastics was dwindling through either breaking or disappearing off her wrists.

Showing up at the Populaire every day for the remainder of break period, Raoul seemed to be in relentless pursuit of having some sort of conversation with Kayla. Due to the fact that the crew was also spending their breaks with their families, Kayla avoided the persistent nobleman by closeting herself away in her studio with the door locked. Erik popped in to check up on her progress occasionally… if by "checking in" one meant speaking a criticism or terse praise out of the blue and making her jump three feet in the air in shock. Jumpscares aside, she was making good progress on the book, and had already completed a number of good-copy pages. If Erik was ever confused as to how she seemed to know exactly what he wanted his opera to look like, his voice never let on.

The second Wednesday after Carlotta's birthday celebrations saw the young set manager standing on her familiar position on the catwalk, watching from above as the cast ran through the second opening scene of Faust for the eighth time that day. Piangi – in the title role of Faust – was being circled menacingly by Claude Marizio, the second baritone, who was playing the Devil, Mephistopheles. This particular rehearsal and performance round had the potential to be one of the most relaxed of the season; due to the fact that all of the opera's female roles were fairly minor, there were fewer opportunities for argument between the two primadonnas over acting or solos. The cast and crew were cautiously optimistic that there would not be violent warfare between the sopranos for a couple of weeks. Marizio, as the baritone had requested to be called when he and Kayla had first been introduced, was a perfect devil; with a narrow face, hair so dark it looked blue in certain light, high cheekbones, and impish upturned brows, he pranced around the much shorter and rounder Piangi with a dangerous feline grace that perfectly portrayed the diabolical humor of the character. Piangi was acting quite well for a change, and Faust's shock at seeing the Devil himself in his study was expertly communicated to the watchers; a fact that was more likely attributed to Marizio's blatant disregard for scripted stage directions.

"Alright, that will do, gentlemen!" Reyer's voice carried up impatiently from the orchestra pit. "Marizio, that was perfect, and Piangi, please do exactly what you just did for the scene from now on! We will move on to the act one scene three tomorrow, nine 'o' clock sharp, please, everyone! Mademoiselle Abbots, if you would kindly see that the stage is set for scene three?" Kayla exhaled slowly, rolling her stiff neck as she straightened up and stuck her head over the edge of the catwalk.

"Yes, Maestro!" she hollered agreeably.

"Thank you, mademoiselle!" Reyer called back. "Except for the stage crew, the rest of you are dismissed!"

The cast on stage relaxed, chattering cheerfully as they moved offstage. Marizio, his horns the only costume for the rehearsal, snuck up behind the female members of the chorus and tried to scare them. High pitched screams rose up to the girl pacing with feline steadiness over the boards of the catwalk. Kayla sighed, rubbing her forehead tiredly as she yanked on the knots holding up the background tapestries. Her first true rehearsal period was more exhausting than she had anticipated. Strands of her hair were attempting to escape from her bun, but were held in place by an improvised headband – a long cut of thick, delicately woven black lace, a sample for _Don Juan_ costumes provided by Erik. Watching as the ground crew rolled up the fallen fabric many stories below, she looped up the remaining ropes and tied them into place in their respective positions. There were no hanging pieces for the next scene, so she climbed down the rope ladder to the balcony before sashaying lightly down the stairs.

"Hey, guys, take the rest of the day for yourselves," she mocked when the rest of the crew had gathered after the stage was ready to go. "Go have some 'you' time."

"Thanks, I'm going to go do my hair," Jamie replied sweetly, tugging on one of his chestnut curls. "Make myself feel pretty." Clemens laughed and shoved him.

"I'm off," Kayla said, unconsciously adjusting the cuff of her diva-supplied button-up, fitted black blouse. "If y'all need anything, speak now or forever hold your peace, 'cause you won't see me for the rest of the afternoon."

"It's four 'o' clock in the afternoon, lassie!" Claude exclaimed, peering over Germaine's shoulder at the other man's watch.

"I'll see you all at dinner," Kayla continued evasively, curtseying teasingly before turning to leave.

"But Kayla!" Jamie whined

"No buts, Blanchard!" Kayla cut off, already moving down the hall. "See you at dinner!"

There were some disappointed moans, but the goodbyes were good-natured as Kayla hurried off. She slipped her hands into the pockets of her work pants, fingers running lightly over her key ring and her phone as she sauntered down the hall towards the primadonna room. Passing the rose-painted door, she turned down the next corridor.

"Mademoiselle!"

_Oh please merciful heavens, not now._

Kayla whipped her head around and was immediately confronted by her current worst fear: Raoul. Alone. Smiling. Heading straight for her.

_Javla helvete. _

"Mademoiselle Abbots!" he called, white teeth flashing as he marched towards her.

_Nope._

Fight or flight instincts kicking in, overpowering any sense of manners, Kayla bolted. She could hear him calling after her, his voice getting more distant. She turned the corner and slowed, ears pricked for any noise of his reactions. There was silence, immediately followed by the sounds of boots moving quickly over wooden floors. He was running.

_NO NOPE NOPITY NOPE. _

Taking a deep gulp of air into her lungs, Kayla sprinted, letting muscle memory lead her through the warren of hallways. As she pounded down a set of stairs, she heard Raoul thundering down the halls behind her. He was following the sounds of her boots, she realized. She wanted to scream. Instead she gathered up her centre of gravity into her abdomen and focused on running like an elf.

_No one ventures into this part of the opera house, my ass, _she thought sourly, recalling Erik's guarantee with enraged clarity as she listened to the heavy footsteps of the Vicomte. _I am Legolas!_ she cheered herself on as she continued running down the hall, her strides making significantly less noise than the nobleman. _But not enough like Legolas,_ her mind interjected snarkily, rudely pointing out the fact that Kayla was apparently still making enough noise for Raoul to follow her.

Careening around another corner, she noted with faint relief that the gaslights were dimming, the metal fixtures growing further and further apart. When she saw the black painted door she almost cried with glee. She pumped her arms, lengthening her strides out as she dashed towards her sanctuary. Whipping the tiny key out of her pocket, she shoved it into the lock and twisted hard, throwing open the door and clicking the lock shut behind her. She backed away from the doorway cautiously. For a moment, silence reigned.

Then came the pounding rhythm of Raoul's footsteps. The beat slowed as he approached the door, and stopped as he reached it. Kayla held her breath.

"Mademoiselle, there is no need to run," he soothed.

Looking wildly around, she realized with annoyance that she had essentially trapped herself. Apparently he was willing to wait, and this place had no exits. Unless she threw herself out the window. Which was looking more appealing by the minute.

"I merely wanted to speak with you," he added, his voice smooth and calming. "I feel that you misunderstood me at the party, and I wanted to ease your mind."

_No, I understood you just fine, thanks, _Kayla growled mentally, slinking closer to the wall. _Pitter-patter_, raced her rabbit heart. She had never felt more like prey.

He did not speak for a few minutes. The inky black of his shadow spilling under the crack in the door erased all hope that he had maybe given up and retreated.

"I can hear you breathing," he said conversationally.

Kayla whimpered. She needed out, and she needed out now. There were no weapons in the room, but there were no supplies for a siege either. And no one but she knew where she was, and she couldn't exactly call 911. Desperately, she looked around the room. Her blue eyes landed on something that she had not thought of before. Kayla stared at the golden framed mirror.

"You have fight in you, Kayla, and it is admirable," Raoul complimented, a quiet creak of wood suggesting the nobleman was casually leaning against the door. "But I am a determined man. We would make an excellent team."

_Who gave you the mother effing right to call me by my first name_, Kayla silently snarled, pawing with shaking hands over the edges of the gilt mirror. Her fingertips caught on a catch, and as her roving hands pulled it down, the glass slid open with a quiet whoosh. She stumbled to the table in the centre of the room and grabbed her art folder, sticking a pencil and a paintbrush through her bun. She swiped a bead of sweat off her face, accidentally striping her cheek with red watercolour from a spill that she had not cleaned up from earlier that morning. Might as well have an excuse for being in the catacombs in the first place, and getting art advice was as good a reason as any.

"Please, Kayla, give me a chance to explain," Raoul implored.

_Not today, bitch,_ Kayla smiled triumphantly as she slid through the mirror and shut it firmly behind her, even though every instinct in her was railing at her – C.S. Lewis style – that it was a terrible idea to shut yourself into a wardrobe, or in this instance a mirror. She made sure the mirror was firmly shut, and then swiveled to stare down the gloomy, cobwebbed passage. Raoul's muffled entreaties were blocked by the sheet of glass, only coming through as wordless sighs and murmurs. "And now: to not be killed by a trap," Kayla nodded firmly. She took her first step into the unknown.

* * *

Somehow, to her eternal shock, she found herself, an hour later, standing in front of the maze of canals deep beneath the opera house. Pale red torches flickered in the cold rushing drafts of air, unseen wind whistling eerily in the distance. She shivered. Faintly, the spooky hum of an organ drifted through the stone archways, the ripples of the water almost perfectly in time with the deep, desperate notes. Now there was just the trouble of getting to where the organ was being played. She glared at the stone columns and archways. "Ugh. Exercise," she moaned glumly, her calves still burning from her inadvertent sprint. Sighing with annoyance, she stuck her art folder down her shirt. She leaned out over the water and lunged for one of the columns. Grabbing onto it, she swung her body up onto the ledge. "Ugh. Climbing."

The deep dissonant notes of the organ echoed louder and louder throughout the caverns as Kayla climbed over and through ledges and arches, balancing precariously on the roughly hewn stone. _"He's there, the Phantom of the Opera_," she warbled under her breath as she ducked under yet another crumbling stone. "_Merciful Misha_!" she shrieked, flailing for a moment as she almost slipped on a small patch of water. The organ stopped.

Holding her breath, she crouched on the wall, unmoving, until the music began again. She let out a wordless curse before resuming her trek. Kayla felt her heartbeat in her fingertips, the excessively fast rhythm matching the beat of the organ.

Time, apparently, was quite enthusiastic about screwing around with Kayla's head; in what felt like five minutes, she had discovered that she was on a ledge in front of a wide lagoon, the black bars of the Phantom's gate blocking the majestic entrance to the cavern. She reached into her back pocket to consult her phone; another hour had passed. It was six 'o' bloody clock. She clambered down from her perch to the ridge of stone that crossed across the edge of the lake to the shore. Scampering along the stones to the rocky beach, Kayla pulled the leather folder out from under her shirt and peeked around the edge of the entranceway. Through the thick black bars, she could see a man's back. She averted her eyes, almost ashamed of herself for her invasion of his privacy. He might even Punjab her; they had only been partners in crime for what, three weeks? Scanning the rock face for any way to get in, she spotted a nearly invisible opening in the dark cliff. Before her mind even processed the approval to move, Kayla had walked through the hidden door and into the Phantom's house.

The Phantom himself was seated at the organ, obsidian gloved hands dancing fiercely over the ivory keys of the instrument. His head bent down, he played intensely, focused solely on his own hands. His black hair was slicked back, shining in the candlelight, but his head was turned in such a way that Kayla could not see his face. The former, in this case, was a relief; if she saw his face without his permission, she would definitely be dead. Kayla walked quietly, entranced, across the overpass above the lake, staring down at the Phantom. Stepping lightly down the steep, broad stairs, she stopped in the centre of one of the levels, next to the tied up gondola. Throwing caution to the wind, Kayla took a deep breath and cleared her throat.

* * *

**Author's Note: I was really nervous about this chapter. Raoul has some ulterior motives, that should be obvious, and every time I try to write out an explanation Raoul just refuses to cooperate. He's a jerk that way. But cooperation or not, all of Raoul's behaviour shall be explained soon enough. In this instance, he's acting like a small child who wants something - in this case, talking to Kayla - and is not being allowed to have it. I'll write up a more detailed explanation within the next couple of chapters. Anyway, we have a face to face meeting at last! I hope you all are excited about actually seeing the Phantom, and not just hearing a voice from the mirror. The next chapter is going to be told from Erik's point of view, so we'll get to see his side of the situation. **

**Many of you had concerns that the link for Kayla's dress last chapter didn't show up. I was to lazy to change the last chapter, but I've put the link below, just take out the spaces and it should work. If it doesn't, please let me know. In this image it's yellow, but Kayla's is blue. **

**Anyway, thanks for reading this far, please feel free to review or PM with questions or comments, and follow or favourite if the mood strikes you. And to Guest, Guest, and E-man-dy-S, thank you for your reviews. Thank you all for the support!**

**Tierney**

_**readpaintwrite**_

**Kayla's dress UPDATE: after ten minutes fighting with this crappy link, I am just going to try to get a picture of it into my profile. Apologies for my technological incompetence. **

**FINAL UPDATE: SCREW ALL OF THIS. I will post the picture of the dress to my Tumblr, and those who are interested in it can go search it up, or maybe, just maybe, I can get that link on my profile. **


	34. Chapter 34

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. **

* * *

34

Erik was seated at the organ, hands flying thunderously over the keys. The porcelain mask perched steadily on top of the organ. Brow furrowed, he allowed his emotions to flow out into the cacophony of notes. With a satisfied snarl, he abruptly stopped playing, reaching an ink pen up to the sheaf of paper on the organ's music stand and sharply marking down the melody he called into being. Once each element of the verse had been properly transcribed, he dropped the pen and picked up the song where he had left off, as if the music had never stopped at all.

As his masterpiece trickled out steadily through his tapered fingertips, Erik felt more at peace than he had in weeks. The worry about the managers, the fop, his artist, and his angel flickered only dimly in the back of his mind. Nothing mattered but the music.

Until he, engrossed in the melody, suddenly became aware of the tap of boots on the rough stone of the cavern.

"Yo, so I was wondering about the sleeves on this one dress – Aminta's, I think – cause the way you said they were designed they're just going to keep falling down and I swear it's just going to piss everyone off, but it's going to be amusing for me, I suppose, so should I just go with it or...?"

Erik's fingers stumbled, the rhythm coming to an abrupt and dissonant halt. One hand scrambled for the white porcelain and slammed it over his disfigured face. Turning with an abrupt motion, knocking over the organ bench in his haste, Erik turned to face the intruder, breathing heavily.

Kayla Abbots was standing casually at the foot of the shallow steps up to the organ's platform, one hand on her hip and the other holding a leather folder full of newsprint and watercolour splashed paper and fabric pieces. A dark black pencil and a fluffy brown brush were stuck through her high, mussed blonde bun. There was a long piece of the black lace he had provided as a sample tied over her hair, one of the reference samples he gave to her for her drawings of the costumes. There were smudges of graphite and dots of ink on her hands. Red watercolour was striped over her cheek.

She cocked her head at him. Erik tried to calm his raging pulse, talking himself down from the terror of being caught in his own home. His chest was heaving. Kayla stared into his wild eyes. She took a cursory glance up and down his figure, smirking slightly. Then she caught him watching and blushed ruby red. "Whatcha so freaked about?" she inquired nonchalantly, ignoring the fact that she - if Erik was not mistaken - had just surveyed him in the same manner that he had seen the noblemen of the Populaire audience staring at the ballet corps. Maybe this was a common behaviour in her time, so Erik made an effort to be understanding. Nevertheless, the idea that she was judging his physique brought back the painful feeling of being caged and beaten for the amusement of an audience. Her cheeks were steadily brightening crimson, and she was avoiding his eyes. When she finally looked up, she smiled sheepishly. He looked intently back at her. Her blue eyes narrowed quizzically, rosy lips pursed. They stared at each other in complete silence for a moment. She caught his gaze again, and her eyes widened in realization.

"Oh shit, I'm not supposed to know the way down here, am I?"

* * *

Mademoiselle Abbot's exclamation was followed by a long period of silence in which the two merely stared at each other. He broke the silence first.

"How long did it take you to find your way here?" Erik inquired, his voice dangerously calm. Her tanned throat tensed as she gulped.

"Um… two hours?" she squeaked.

His dark brows furrowed.

"I got lost?" she tried.

His head cocked to the side inquisitively, almost of its own accord.

"Magic?" she attempted, throwing up a hand in tandem with her shrug. "Witchcraft? Crossroad's demon?"

Erik was unable to stifle a sharp bark of laughter. The girl visibly relaxed. "I am really very sorry to have barged into your home uninvited and unannounced," she articulated formally, with a slight bow. "It was rude and probably is stressing you the hell out. If you'd like me to leave, I will go."

There was another moment of silence.

"I can't handle the suspense, so if you're going to kill me, kindly get on with it," Mademoiselle Abbots sighed. "It'd be a damn sight better than going back upstairs."

"Why did you venture into my Hell in the first place?" Erik asked coldly, unable to keep the snarl out of his voice.

"Hey now, I have nothing but respect for your interior decorating," Mademoiselle Abbots snapped back. "If you must know, I was making a daring escape from the Vicomte."

Erik stared at her. "What do you mean, a daring escape?" he hissed.

Kayla blinked. "Rehearsal was over, I wanted to get some set book work in before dinner, Raoul ran into me in the hall, I didn't want to talk to him - he's been a douche since Carlotta's party, I swear – so I kinda ran… He kinda chased me?" she paraphrased, uncharacteristically timid.

"And miraculously you appeared in my tunnels?" he exclaimed sarcastically.

"I got in through the mirror in my studio. I knew you'd be pissed but I was bloody desperate," she explained haltingly.

"What do you mean by he chased you?" was the Phantom's next question.

"Let's use a metaphor here: Raoul is a cat. I am a mouse. Covered in catnip," she described dryly. "I ran, he followed. It was all very exciting."

Blood roared in Erik's ears. "I wonder where the precious Vicomte is now," he mused, almost to himself, leather fingertips brushing over the coil of rope at his waist.

"NOPE!" Kayla yelped, lifting her hands in what appeared to be a gesture of surrender. "No please, Monsieur; he's not worth the effort."

"WILL HE STOP AT NOTHING?" Erik roared, sweeping his arm furiously across one of the small tables next to the organ, quills and bottles of ink and candlesticks clacking, crashing, and clanging on the stone.

Mademoiselle Abbots squeaked and unconsciously took a step backward.

He flipped the table over, hurling it brutally against the wall as he yelled. Standing perfectly still at the foot of the shallow steps, Mademoiselle was as quiet and immovable as an ice statue. "HE WILL NOT STOP!" Erik howled, swiping a pile of parchment onto the floor, pages fluttering feebly through the air. "EVERYTHING WILL DISAPEAR, MY ANGEL, THE FOP, THE MAGICIAN AND THE DANCERS, _LEAVING THE DEVIL ALONE IN HELL!_" He swung his arm angrily and a crystal decanter of wine flew through the air and smashed with musical finality at Mademoiselle Abbot's feet. As maroon liquid flowed around the shards of sparkling glass and splashed the leather boots, the girl's blonde head snapped up.

"_Destler_."

Her voice rang out loudly, echoing like a bell through night air, ringing in Erik's ears. Her deep blue eyes flashed silver sparks.

The harsh noise brought back repressed memories of jeers, of shots and snarls and cheers as a mask was ripped off his small head, the rod swishing and cracking again, and again, and again…

Erik's hands flew instinctively to clutch his head, holding his mask tightly to his face as he dropped to the floor, almost curled in on himself. "Erik is alone, Erik is alone, Erik will always be alone," he chanted under his breath, the mantra escaping his lips without permission from the scared child that still concealed itself in his skull. Silence fell. For a moment, Erik retreated deeper and deeper into the dark recesses of his own mind.

"Phantom?" the female voice rang again, the tone softer, gentler. There was a pattering noise, followed by slower, more measured taps, the vibration moving steadily closer. Next came the shuffling of shifting fabrics, the scrape of leather on stone, and a gentle thump. "Phantom," she repeated insistently, the words closer than ever.

He opened his eyes and raised his gaze, desperate emerald meeting steady blue. Her head tilted quizzically to one side, her expression appearing almost birdlike. "You okay?" she asked hesitatingly, the words sounding strange to Erik's ears. He blinked. The silence remained. Indigo eyes roved with concern over his face, her attention focused – to Erik's puzzlement – not on the left side of his face, or on his face in general, but stayed on his eyes. "Are you okay?" she repeated. Erik's heartbeat raced in his chest and he did not answer. His breaths came fast and shallow.

Her arm reached forward and hovered over the hand that anchored the Opera Ghost to the ground. He could feel warmth radiating from her fingertips, but she did not touch him. "Damn it, Jim, I'm not a doctor, I'm an art major," she muttered to herself, not intending for him to hear. She scotched back a pace, still seating on the floor, and pulled a thin black rectangle from out of her pocket. Giving a short sigh, she began to tap her fingers on the surface of the device, biting her lip and narrowing her eyes. The girl paused for a moment, tapped once more, and began to run her finger continuously along the far edge of the rectangle's surface. When she halted a few seconds later, she nodded briskly and hopped up on the balls of her feet. "May I?" she asked, sliding one foot slightly forward, signalling her intent to move closer. Erik did not move.

"Well, unconsciousness is consent, I suppose," she huffed, scootching towards him and sitting down, crossing her legs gracefully and relaxing, her spine curling forward slightly from beneath her shirt. "Disregard any freak outs about witchcraft for a moment and just do what I say, please," she requested holding out the metal shape to him. He glanced at it, and his rage and grief were promptly overtaken by shock.

The once black surface of the metal had turned a glowing grey, and near the bottom was a tiny black dot. As Erik stared, it lengthened out into a line, opened up into a triangle, then a square, then a pentagon, hexagon, heptagon, octagon, before sinking back down into the single black dot once more. "Breathe in and out with the box," she stated calmly. "That doesn't mean hold your breath, you ninny," she added impatiently when Erik did not respond. Obediently, he took in a much needed gulp of air. "Slower." He exhaled as the shapes sunk back into nothingness, and inhaled as the line expanded. For several minutes the lair was utterly silent except for the sound of his own steady breathing.

"Better?" she ventured cautiously as Erik began feeling his heart thumping more slowly, the anger that had filled him seeping away, a small little creature of red, determined annoyance curling up in the corner of his psyche to lick its wounds. "Now keep breathing exactly like that." She pulled the magic image away, and Erik focused on regulating his breathing pattern properly without the helpful moving lines. "Now look at this cat," she said unexpectedly, brandishing the object under his nose. A tiny black kitten was curled up in the centre of the grey and white background, its tiny little chest rising and falling in the exact rhythm he was breathing now. "It's bloody adorable," Mademoiselle Abbots cooed, the glow of the object reflecting sapphire glints into her dark blue eyes. The two examined the kitten in peaceful quiet.

"The sleeves are supposed to fall." The words left his lips before Erik had time to process the fact he was calm enough to speak. "Aminta is innocent, but teetering on the edge of maturity. She will try to push up the sleeves and they will not stay."

"It's on purpose then; good. It's going to mess with people so badly, my gosh that'll be a fun night," Kayla chuckled, not taking her eyes off the kitten. She shifted her legs, stretching them out in front of her. Flexing her toes into a strangely accurate dancers point, she grinned at the tiny magical photograph she held. "Welp, it's quarter to seven, my crew's gonna be worried sick. You mind taking me back upstairs?" Clambering to her feet, she stood and stepped back a pace – giving him space.

He too stood, nervously adjusting his cuffs and smoothing a hand over his slightly dishevelled hair. Mademoiselle Abbots smiled. "I will show you the way back to your dormitory. Only the cast and crew is allowed in that section of the opera house. I will move your art supplies, and you will work here from now on."

_Wait, what?_ Part of his mind hissed at the unapproved invitation. The part of Erik that had spoken ignored the dissent.

The girl grinned, flashing ivory teeth and sparkling blue eyes. "Oh my gosh, that would be amazing, thank you. As long as I'm not intruding."

Erik shook his head.

Dropping into a hilariously exaggerated curtsey, the young manager dipped her blonde head and held it there for a moment before rising again. "_A place that the Vicomte doesn't know about, thank the blessed Lord_," Erik heard her mutter as she bent down to pick up her leather portfolio.

Erik stepped forward and took the folder of sketches from her, narrowly avoiding touching her bare fingers. Laying it on the table where the stage model sat, he snatched up his black cloak off the table and swung it over his shoulders.

"_Javla helvete_."

Erik could have sworn he heard the little mademoiselle squeak the Swedish words, a phrase which he did not understand. He ignored it and turned to face the girl, who, for some unknown reason, was blushing again.

"Follow me," he ordered brusquely, striding past her down the stairs.

* * *

It was only as he watched Mademoiselle Abbots practically sashaying out of the passage into the dormitory hallway – exuding confidence that she could avoid the fop for another day – that he realized what he had missed.

She had been terrified out of her wits. Looking back on the expressions that had crossed her face when he had lost control, he vividly remembered her wide eyes and bitten lip. Pursued by a man she knew nothing about she had turned to a man the world despised for help. Yet she had ended up having to comfort _him_.

Erik snarled at his own incompetence, rubbing a hand angrily across his masked forehead. He had failed, again. He needed to keep better control over his emotions as far as his little Magician was concerned. The same sentiment could apply to his Angel…

He quickly crushed that line of thought and stalked off into the dark, an image of an opening and closing box moving calmingly in the back of his mind.

* * *

**Author's Note: So I didn't get another chapter out last weekend. Please don't be mad, I'm sorry! *cries***

**Anyway, that was a long-ass chapter, all from Erik's POV. I find him tricky to write, so I hope I did his character justice. The gifs that Kayla shows Erik are from an Anxiety Gif Master Post on Tumblr, from the blog dead-rainbow. It actually is a fabulous way to calm down, I use it all the time. **

**But enough about Tumblr, please feel free to let me know what you guys thought of this chapter in a review or PM, and follow or favourite if desired. To E-may-dy-S, thetasigma, and Guest, thanks for the reviews, and thanks to all those who have followed and favorited. Thanks to all of you for reading! **

**Hugs!**

**Tierney**

**readpaintwrite**


	35. Chapter 35

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera**

* * *

35

The following weekend brought an All Hallows gala at Carlotta's residence, a large, extravagant, yet fairly private affair consisting of Carlotta's extensive network of cousins, a few select members of Piangi's side of the family, and Kayla. Despite the occasion, costumes were for-gone in favour of stylish yet comfortable wear that allowed them all to pass the evening in relative comfort. The former was a blessing as the majority of the gala's activities consisted of eating.

It was here that Kayla finally was able to speak to Piangi. She was sprawled out on a couch in the sitting room, nursing a flute of moscato champagne and a chocolate cake hangover, when she raised her head and saw that the large Italian man had taken up residence on the settee opposite. "Oh. Hi," she greeted lazily.

"Ciao, little signorina," Piangi responded kindly. He was a mass of a man, broad and strong with a dark goatee and curly, though thinning dark hair.

Kayla flopped back down, her head thumping on the arm of the couch. "Ow. How are you enjoying the party, Piangi?"

"It is very extravagant, my wi – Carlotta knows how to throw a party."

Kayla raised her head again and glared at Piangi. "_What_ pray tell was with that word change?"

Piangi flushed beet red. "What word change? Dere was nothing."

"You started to call Carlotta your wife," Kayla pointed out mercilessly. If it was even possible, Piangi turned even redder. "Is there something you'd wish to discuss about that particular technicality?"

Piangi looked down at the floor and mumbled.

Kayla held back a snort of laughter. "I'm sorry, you're going to have to speak up," she teased.

Lifting his face again, Piangi muttered, "You are 'er friend. I wanted advice."

"Oh, calm down, I'm teasing. Sit, I'll listen." She pointed her finger energetically at the armchair closest to the couch. Heaving himself off the settee, Piangi shuffled over to the seat Kayla had indicated. When he was seated, she struggled to a seated position and stared at him attentively. "Okay, what's up?"

* * *

Turned out Piangi wanted proposal advice. Kayla felt woefully unprepared to give such advice, as the only relationship she had ever been in was a boyfriend for three weeks in grade twelve who had dropped her for one of the cheerleaders. She was no expert in the intricacies of romantic pursuit. A ring was produced for her examination out of his pocket, a deep, almost black violet box containing an incredibly large diamond, flanked by two pearls and set in in delicate swirls of gold. "And any wedding band you have in mind?" Kayla held the box delicately in her palm, entranced by the light flickering over the smooth iridescent pearls and the spectrum of sparkling shades dancing through the diamond. Piangi coughed. Looking up, she spotted the simple gold ring held carefully in his hand. "Dear heavens, you're prepared, aren't cha? How long have you been planning this?" Piangi shrugged. Kayla took a quick glance to the door to check that no one was approaching. "Well you've waited long enough, buddy. These are beautiful. If you like it, put a ring on it," she quoted surreptitiously as she snapped the box shut and handed it back to Piangi.

"It 'as never been da right moment," the baritone said simply.

"Well, pardon my language, but damn that to hell," she replied sharply. "In my experience, no opportunity ever comes at the right moment. Think about it. Do you want to do this publically or privately?"

Piangi hesitated. "Privately?"

She reached over and smacked the back of his head. "No hesitation, bro. No room for doubt."

"Privately."

"That's the spirit. Now, let's plan this…."

* * *

The fateful day the next week, November 6, dawned with all the glory an autumn Thursday could muster, bright orange sunrise dramatically illuminating the cold, windy streets of Paris. As there was no dress rehearsal, Kayla met the crew for breakfast at nine, and promptly thereafter scurried back up to the dorm and into the hidden door in the hallway. Practically skipping down the gloomy stone passage, she hummed to herself as she turned corners and easily bypassed traps. When she arrived at the lair, she went straight to her designated work table and sat down, pulling a good-copy Act 3 page towards her and picking up a paintbrush. "_Will you do anything for me, buy a big diamond ring for me,_" she sang to herself as she stroked crimson lines down the bodice of Aminta's dress.

"What in this godforsaken hell are you so excited about?" Erik snapped by way of greeting as he emerged suddenly from behind the curtain to the swan room.

"Hey now, no need to be rude. There's going to be some nuptials on the horizon," she explained happily. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Erik's shoulders stiffen as he turned away to approach the organ. "Not _those_ nuptials, you idiot. Carlotta and Piangi!"

"I doubt it. They have been living together for years, no need to change it," Erik growled sourly.

"Tell _that_ to the giant diamond ring Piangi showed me last week!" Smiling smugly, Kayla quickly rinsed her paintbrush and snatched up an ink pen. Smoothing the grey ink across the folds of the golden brown skirt, she frowned in concentration as she focused on keeping the line perfectly straight. Setting the pen aside and grabbing a thin brush, she swiped skin tone onto Aminta's face, followed by chocolate brown over the penciled outlines of her curls.

Erik was silent for a moment. "How is it, that whenever something happens, you are always somehow involved?"

"I'm a twenty year old sucker for happy endings – actually, scratch that, almost twenty one… bloody hell I'm going to have my birthday in Paris… - and I can't keep my nose out of anyone's business."

Kayla did not see so much as sense Erik's despairing shake of his head before the deep notes of the organ violently struck her ears. Sticking her earbuds into her ears, she settled back into work, the score of _Don Juan_ layered underneath Imagine Dragons' _Shots_ playing at full blast.

* * *

Kayla emerged into the main levels of the Opera House two full hours later. She popped into the dining hall to grab a piece of bread and an apple and to say a brief hello to the crew before she headed upstairs for her first masquerade planning meeting with the managers. As her boots thumped pleasantly along the marble floors of the balcony above the lobby, she heard a loud shriek. Pausing, she tilted her head to the side just as her ears caught another shout. Kayla stopped walking and leaned over the railing as a crimson vision draped in rose pink careened out of one of the hallways below. "ABBOTS!" the shape screeched.

"Hi…" Kayla greeted, her lips curling into a grin of their volition.

"ABBOTS!" the diva howled again, dashing in a most unladylike fashion up the stairs, her wide skirt held up by a pristinely manicured hand.

"Congrat… OH MY CROWLEY!" Her second greeting morphed into a yelp of fear as Carlotta nearly bowled her over with the force of her embrace.

"Abbots, dio mio! Dio mio, io sono impegnato! Look at mai ring, Abbots, io sono impegnato, il mio anello è così bella…" The prima donna's voice trailed off and she started crying, mascara running in black lines down her powdered face.

"Hey, don't cry, you're okay, this is incredible…" Kayla comforted awkwardly, hugging the slightly shorter woman back and patting her shoulder consolingly. A look from over the top of Carlotta's bent head revealed a pleased looking Piangi lumbering up the stairs. "Hey, congrats my man!"

"Grazie, signorina."

"Carlotta Piangi does not 'ave da same ring to it," Carlotta stated, her voice muffled due to the fact that her face was buried in Kayla's shoulder. "So I will stay Giudicelli, but mio dio, Abbots, I am getting married!" She released Kayla and waved her hand triumphantly in the air.

"Hey, lemme see," Kayla barked, grabbing Carlotta's hand and examining the ring. The gold band and diamond and pearls shone perfectly against the background of the diva's olive skin. Staring at the beautiful ring intently, she let go of Carlotta's hand and grinned. "It is gorgeous. You have my approval and blessing and may proceed."

"You are going with me to get the dress!" Carlotta squealed, hugging Kayla again. "And you are going to be one of my bridesmaids, obviously, and you are wearing a dress, no buts, and you are going to look so pretty and dere is so much to plan!"

"Come find me later, 'kay? I'm late for a meeting with the managers, but I am flipping excited about this, and yes, I will be a bridesmaid, not that you were looking for my consent." She let go of Carlotta and walked over and shook hands with Piangi, who was unfazed by the strangeness of a man and woman shaking hands. "Congrats, I'm pleased you finally manned up," she teased. Piangi flushed and looked down at the floor.

She turned to walk away. "What on earth is going on?"

Raoul's impatient voice echoed through the gilded room. Kayla froze and ever so slowly turned her head. The Vicomte was standing by the doors, a blue scarf wrapped around his neck and a top hat settled on his tawny gold head. "I am engaged, not dat it is any of your concern," Carlotta simpered sarcastically.

"Well, you have my congratulations," Raoul returned smoothly. "Now wait just a moment, Mademoiselle Abbots." Kayla, who had hoped to sneak away undetected, resisted the incredibly strong urge to swear at him.

"The signorina is late for a meeting with da managers, and I hope you will be da gentleman I know you are and let her be," Piangi interrupted abruptly. Raoul glanced at him in dismay, and Kayla took the opportunity of his distraction to speed walk away, silently thanking the simple baritone for, in this instance, being so intuitive.

* * *

The meeting with the managers went well. The New Year's Masquerade was an undeniably reality, and Kayla provided suggestions of decorations, guests lists, and food, while the managers expertly calculated numbers and costs of such an event. The enthusiasm in the room was astounding, and Kayla left a couple of hours later with a brain full of costume ideas, images of delicious dessert trays, and the jewel-like explosions of bright fireworks. "_Masquerade, paper faces on parade, masquerade_…" she warbled softly as she strolled down the hall. The crew was gathered at their standard table and Kayla went immediately to join them. A loud scraping of benches and chairs provided a soundtrack to her entrance as the ballet rats abandoned their older counterparts to flock to Kayla.

"Hello, eat up, Abbots," Jamie greeted, sliding a plate of chicken and bread and a bowl of soup down to the empty seat next to him. As soon as she was seated, Lena squeezed right in between Jamie and Kayla, pushing the older boy's food out of the way to make room for her own. The cavaliers waved from the neighbouring table, but did not move to join them, merely eating their meals mechanically and conversing in low, tired voices. Their eyes were all glazed, and a couple of the juniors actually had their heads resting on the table, the gentle rise and fall of their lean shoulders the only indication that they were still alive at all.

When the meal was nearly over, Kayla was vaguely aware of footsteps approaching down the hall. Immersed in a rather intense literary debate about whether or not Esmeralda had gone through any character development, an argument prompted by her conclusion of _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_, which the stage crew had not completed until now, she ignored the noises. That is, until all the senior ballerinas leapt to their feet, spoons clanking onto the table and chairs screeching back. Kayla hunched her shoulders and ducked behind Jamie. "Pardon me, I don't mean to interrupt, but do any of you happen to know where I could find Mademoiselle Abbots?" Raoul's voice was soothing and trustworthy.

"Lena, I'm not here," she whispered urgently to the little girl next to her before sliding silently under the wooden table. Baptiste, sitting on her other side, and Amelia, sitting next to the fourteen year old stagehand, scooted in to fill the empty space.

"Apologies, _sir_, but what's it to you?" Clemens' voice was a degree away from absolute zero degrees Kelvin, barely bordering on civil. From in between the narrow gaps between the rows of leather boots and brown slippers she saw shining black military boots clomp up to the table. "I merely wanted a word with your lovely manager about some theatre business," Raoul returned silkily. "All quite mundane, I assure you."

"Abbots said that if any of us called her lovely without her express permission she'd castrate us," Dennis mumbled into his soup.

Raoul, however, laughed. "That does sound like something Kayla would say," he chuckled affectionately. Kayla's hands curled into fists.

"I beg your pardon, _Vicomte_, but Mademoiselle Abbots has made it perfectly clear that her birth name is not to be used in a professional setting unless she has agreed to it. Has she had such a conversation with you?" Jamie's voice had changed, the tone brisker and far more eloquent. He sounded highborn.

"Be careful of your tone when speaking to me," Raoul warned.

There was a moment of tense silence. Kayla, lying stiffly on the rough floorboards, held her breath. "Would one of you _gentlemen_ be kind enough to inform your mistress that I wish to speak with her?"

"I will inform her, laddie, but that doesn't mean she'll cooperate. She knows her own mind, Abbots does. She won't be forced." Claude's rough brogue was two parts agreeable and one part cautioning.

"Merci, monsieurs. And as for you… Jeremy Bellard, is it?"

"Sure," Jamie smirked.

"I would advise you to learn some respect when addressing your betters. Thank you to everyone else for your cooperation."

Boot heels thumped across the floor and into the hall.

When the steps faded into nothing, Kayla heard Leonardo's voice address the room from the cavaliers' table. "Dear _God_, I'd love to _slap_ that pretty face."

"He's the Vicomte!" a ballerina admonished from the dancers' table.

"So? Don't mean he get to talk shit to us and order about our manager," Rene drawled, leaning down to stare under the table at Kayla. "It's safe, you can come out now."

"What does he even want?" Jamie muttered as Kayla awkwardly slithered back up onto the bench. She had informed the set crew that she was not on good terms with Raoul and would not like to be in his presence if at all possible, and she had told them about the chase, but not how she had escaped.

"To hell with me if I know, Jeremy Bellard," Kayla replied.

"Okay, everyone has to call me that whenever the Vicomte's around," Jamie ordered the table, grinning.

"Or even better, we could call you a different name every time," Baptiste suggested shyly.

"You are a genius. It's decided. I am officially The Man with a Thousand Names," Jamie announced dramatically.

Kayla took another swallow of soup as Jean leaned across the table. "I have a plan. Remember that Coward challenge a couple weeks back?"

Jamie's eyes bulged. "With Meg?" he whispered back, glancing quickly at the ballerina table, but Meg was in the midst of her own conversation with her fellow dancers and was not paying attention.

"Exactly. We're all gonna take turns, one a day, a different line each day – you're going to have to teach us some new ones, Abbots – and try to do the same thing you did you Meg, but to Christine."

"Not that I will be involved in any of this, but how long are you young men plotting to do this for?" Germaine interjected from the head of the table.

"As long as it takes for our precious patron to lose his mind. Teach him a lesson 'bout messing with the set boys," Jean decided smugly, leaning back slightly as he relaxed.

"The senior stagehands revoke all responsibility for your downfall," Germaine threw his hands up in the air. The adolescents all shook hands over the platters of food.

"Can I try?"

"Sure Baptiste, why not."

"You guys are bloody fantastic."

"Merci, Abbots, we try."

* * *

**Author's Note: I didn't have a class today! I was so pumped, so I worked extra hard to finish up this chapter. If anyone's interested, you can find the picture of Carlotta's ring on my tumblr, by searching #the dangers of buying birthday presents. I might start doing a sneak peek post before I post each chapter... Who knows. **

**Anyway, review or PM with questions or comments, and follow or favourite if the mood strikes you. Thank you to everyone who has read this far, and thanks to everyone who reviewed, followed, or favourited in the last couple of chapters. Thank you to DetectiveOf The Opera, Guest, Guest, redhouseclan, and E-man-dy-S for their guest reviews. **

**So... hoped you liked it? It's already November in the story now, so I hope to get to the Masquerade fairly soon. Just some Christmas stuff, wedding planning, masquerade planning... perhaps some drama between certain characters? I've babbled on long enough. **

**Thank you all so much for reading! Hugs to you all!**

**Tierney **

**readpaintwrite**


	36. Chapter 36

**Author's Note: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera**

* * *

36

The third week in November heralded the completion of dress rehearsals and the premiere of _Faust_. The tickets sold faster than passes to Comic Con. On opening night, Marizio received a standing ovation after every act, as did Piangi. Even though their minor female characters did not have very much stage time, both Carlotta and Christine, who were both granted individual roles for the production, were thrown multiple bouquets and individual roses as they curtseyed at curtain call, and the Prima Donna dressing room and the second soprano dressing room were piled high with gifts and flowers. The two divas had originally fought fiercely during their co-ownership of the primadonna room, but Christine had abruptly given up her claim to the primadonna room just before dress rehearsals started. Kayla privately suspected it had something to do with a certain gold-frame mirror, an avoidance that seemed rather irrelevant given the fact that the second soprano room contained a full length mirror which, though less grand than its counterpart, served the exact same purpose. But as Erik had not even indirectly mentioned Christine for three weeks, it seemed that the young soprano had nothing to fear.

The battle of flirtation was met with resounding success. Each boy used a different pick up line for each of their turns, whether it was a compliment (Dennis's "_excuse me, I think you have something in your eye… oh wait, it's just a sparkle_") or wordplay ("_I was wondering if you had an extra heart; mine seems to have been stolen_" was Jean's contribution) or full out pick up (Gaston chose "_On a scale of one to America, how free are you tonight?_"). Jamie was awarded bragging rights for the most successful improvisation; when Christine sneezed as she was passing him backstage during the third performance night, he commented "_I'd say God bless you, but it looks like he already did_", and immediately retreated because Raoul had overheard. But Baptiste won the championship with "_If I had to write a story about your life, it would be a picture book. Because your beauty is beyond words. And that's coming from somebody with a fairly large vocabulary_". Christine was so astounded that she actually awarded the fourteen year old with a kiss on the cheek. The set crew agreed that Raoul had been moments away from an aneurism as the younger crew member skipped merrily away. A younger crew member whom Kayla had to keep reminding herself was only two years younger than Christine.

December came and with it the snowfall dramatically increased. Paris was covered in high blankets of snow, and Kayla woke on December 1st to a layer of frost on the window above and on the floor surrounding her bed. The set book was over halfway finished, and Erik was speaking less and less as he dove deeper and deeper into his masterpiece. Kayla spent entire days in the lair whenever she was not working.

_Faust_ concluded in the second week of December. The young cavaliers and ballet rats were sent home again, and the environment of the opera house drastically relaxed. The masquerade was announced after the first week of performances, and was declared open to the fans, city nobility, and main cast. The set crew briefly discussed crashing the party just to piss off the Vicomte, but decided that the continuation of their pick-up contest – now entering its fourth week – was enough revenge for the moment. That very day over breakfast, Leo called "_If I controlled the letters, I'd put you and I together_" across the room to where Christine was eating breakfast with Meg. The soprano was very confused, and the young prima ballerina could barely hold back her laughter.

* * *

As soon as Faust was over, Kayla closeted herself away in the lair. Spurred on by the motivation only a spectre perfectionist in a porcelain mask could provide, she completed the set book by the start of the third week in December. While she brushed sealant over the painted pages and waited for them to dry and flatten out before Erik could start to bind them, she doodled costumes on scraps of newsprint… Long flowing cloaks, the face of a skull, a military jacket; a wide skirt, tight bodice, ribbon sleeves falling off shoulders…

Kayla felt a presence at her shoulder and she jumped in her seat. She tilted her head around and noted all six feet two inches of the Opera Ghost looming over her. "Dammit, monsieur, don't scare me like that!"

"Phantom will do," he snapped, reaching a gloved hand over her shoulder and pulling the newsprint from underneath her pen. "You have had no previous trouble with referring to me by that title."

"Alright, alright, just trying to be polite," Kayla defended calmly, raising her hands in the air. Erik pulled the drawings away and held them up to his face, emerald eyes flickering intently over the black sketches.

"The skull one's yours," Kayla explained, craning her neck back to stare at his passive expression. "Don't know if you already started designing for Red Death, you probably have… Hey, where are you going?"

But Erik disappeared into the tunnels, carrying her doodles with him.

Kayla stared after him for a moment. Sighing, she shrugged and returned to the set book pages.

* * *

"How are you planning to spend your break period?"

Kayla lifted her head off her pillow, taking her eyes off a copy of _Alice in Wonderland_ she had borrowed from Erik to look at Meg. "Sleeping. I shall be sleeping."

"You can't just lock yourself up in the dorm all Christmas!" Meg squealed, hopping off her bed to bounce on the end of Kayla's. "Even Christine will be going out, and she's the shyest girl I know."

"I'm not shy. I'm selectively social."

"You can't just spend the whole holiday reading! You must have some sort of Christmas plans!"

Kayla let the book flop out of her hands and bent her neck uncomfortably to glare at the young dancer. "My family's kind of on the opposite side of the world, so forgive me if I'm not going to pop over to Canada for Christmas dinner." The idea that time in her world could be moving on without her was troubling her as of late, and the snow and planned social gatherings and general air of festivities were only amplifying her vague feeling of depressed concern. She hadn't even given Samantha her birthday present, let alone even _planned_ a Christmas present, and at this rate she might never even get the opportunity.

"But you have a family here, at the Populaire. Maman said that you would be welcome to spend Christmas with us, if you would like."

Kayla smiled soberly at the sixteen year old prima ballerina. "You're sweet, Giry. I appreciate the sentiment."

"I'm assuming you received an invitation to la Carlotta's Christmas party?"

"As a matter of fact I did. It is formal dress though, and I've got my skirt and my blue dress and that's about it for fashion, so…"

"Well why don't you go get one? You have some money now."

"The first thing you should know about me, my little ballerina, I am a university student and therefore I have been conditioned to spend almost nothing."

Meg leapt off the end of Kayla's bed. "Tis the season, Kayla. We are going to get you a dress that will be the talk of the prima donna's party. I did want to go shopping anyway, and since you would be with me, Maman will have to let me."

"I feel like I'm aiding and abetting some sort of crime."

"Oooh! And we can go out to a café and have some pastries and chocolate! And we can bring Christine! Raoul will buy her anything she wants, and if she happens to give some items to us…"

"Fine French baking and stealing money from the Vicomte. You know what I like."

* * *

As it turned out, Carlotta, not wanting her young friend to be in any sort of debt – realized or otherwise – to the infamous French nobleman, was more than happy to provide funds for a dress. So with a full purse clinging cheerily next to her silent phone inside her cloak pocket, she ventured out into the snowy streets of Paris with a ballerina and a singer next to her. "Raoul would have sent a coach with us if we had asked," Christine commented, wrapping her cherry red cloak more closely around her slender frame as she walked lightly through the snow next to her two companions.

"You'll forgive me if I say I'd prefer to not owe your fiancé a favour. Oooh, look at that fabric, hot damn!"

The trio of girls ventured into multiple stores along the main commercial avenues surrounding the Populaire, always met with friendly reception and ready helpfulness. After all, Kayla smirked to herself as she watched the sales clerks, male and female alike, practically fall over their own feet in their attempt to please the two young celebrities and their money wielding patron. What must they think of her – a twenty year old girl, no man in sight, shopping with two sixteen year olds?

Christine bought some hair ribbons, but when asked about her masquerade plans, she only shrugged and smiled secretively. Meg and Kayla had no plans for masquerade costumes, but both decided to procrastinate on that point. Meg left one of their stops with girlish, lacy, semi-casual gown in an elegant dove grey. They took shelter from the snow in a charming little café, warming up with the help of hot chocolate and chocolate croissants fresh from the oven. Admitting defeat after hours of wandering, the girls were on their way back to the Populaire when Kayla felt a sharp tug on her elbow. "Kayla, look," Christine whispered. Meg had fallen behind them, and had her cherubic face pressed up to the glass of a wide shop window. When the ballerina looked up and saw her two bemused friends staring at her from further up the street, she beckoned to them furiously. Shrugging at the soprano, Kayla walked unconcernedly back down the street to the excited dancer.

Opening her mouth to make a smart aleck comment, Kayla's mouth snapped shut again as she glanced up at the object of Meg's attention. "Holy crap."

"It's beautiful," Christine breathed as she approached, awestruck.

"You have to get it, Kayla," Meg squealed, pulling on the stage manager's arm with all the enthusiasm of a small child.

"Isn't it a bit… risky?"

"From this shop? Carlotta loves this place. I can at least say that the diva has good taste."

"It doesn't look exactly like something that's in style, at the moment at least."

"Don't give me that, Kayla, I can tell you love it."

"I'll try it on. I make no promises."

Standing in the dressing room, with her two small friends waiting in eager anticipation outside the door, Kayla stared at her figure in the mirror. The dress she wore was far closer to the style of her own time than the fashion of 1870, but it was beautiful. "I'm going to be a walking scandal," she muttered to herself.

She bought it anyway.

* * *

Xavier and Jamie met the trio of girls at the door of the Populaire. "I will take that ridiculously large box up to the dorm, if you would like, Abbots," Jamie offered gallantly, bowing slightly as he took the package out of Kayla's hands.

"That'd be great, merci Blanchard."

"Would you like me to take yours as well, Mademoiselle Giry?"

Meg giggled. "Very well, Monsieur. Merci."

"Do it now, are you a coward or no?" Kayla heard Jamie mutter at Xavier as he passed his younger colleague. Xavier straightened almost imperceptibly, his expression determined.

"May I carry your package for you, Mademoiselle Daäe?"

Christine looked surprised at the stagehand's offer. "If you would like," she agreed confusedly.

Xavier took the package of ribbons and accessories from Christine and stuck it under his arm. He walked beside the soprano as they advanced into the lobby. "Your hand looks heavy; let me hold it for you."

"What?"

But the damage was done, and Xavier, grinning triumphantly, held Christine's pale hand in his.

Jamie skipped down the stairs merrily and shot Xavier the thumbs up.

"What is going on here?!"

Raoul's voice was raised in anger from behind them. Kayla whipped around and saw the Vicomte marching, incensed, through the lobby doors towards them. Xavier bent and kissed the young soprano's hand, tossed the box to Kayla, and sprinted up the stairs to Jamie. "Come on, Justin Beverly, the damage has been done, let's go!"

Kayla immediately handed the package off to Meg and, holding her skirts in one hand, bolted after her fellow crew members.

"Beverly! Mademoiselle Abbots! Where do you think you are going?!" Raoul yelled.

Jamie looped his arm through Kayla's as she caught up with the two boys. "The deed is done," he grinned, looking and sounding remarkably like Thomas Sanders.

Kayla laughed.

* * *

She spent the rest of the day with the adolescents of the set crew, as most of the seniors had gone home to spend time with their families and would not be back until the night of the masquerade. Mostly they stole food from the kitchens and hid from Raoul, who seemed to be combing the entire opera house in search of the stagehands who were making his secret fiancé blush from their attentions.

Later that night, Kayla was called into the managers' office.

"We have received a concern from the Vicomte that members of the set crew are harassing Ms. Daäe," Firmin explained, sounding almost apologetic.

"That sounds rather out of character. What did Ms. Daäe say about this?"

"Oh, well, she actually did not have any complaints. From her perspective, the crew members have just been… more friendly than usual."

"So she did not have any concerns?"

"No, actually, she appeared to think it was a very amusing joke. The Vicomte was very angry about it, however. He said that the crew was being too familiar."

"Are you implying that my crew would be anything but respectful to the cast? If I recall correctly, there has not been a single problem of this sort since I took over."

"Of course not, Mademoiselle Abbots!"

"I would trust the crew with my life, monsieurs. They have been nothing but gentlemen to me since I was given this position, and they know I will not accept substandard behaviour. Is my judgement under question?"

"No, Mademoiselle, but the Vicomte…"

"The Vicomte is displaying signs of jealously. I would appreciate if his paranoia did not interfere with my work. On the other hand, if _Mademoiselle Daäe_ has any complaints, I would be more inclined to listen."

Andre sighed. "Very well. I have complete faith in your abilities, mademoiselle."

When the events of the meetings were related to the young crew members over dinner, Jamie's face greatly resembled that of a smug cat. "He has snapped. Remember this day, my friends. But this is only the beginning. We have until January 1st to make the Vicomte completely lose his mind."

And as Kayla nearly cracked her ribs with laughter, the new pact was forged.

* * *

**Author's Note: I am so sorry for the delay guys! I had a midterm that I thought I was going to fail, but I ended up getting an A! I was pumped about that, so now, instead of studying for the Spanish exam I have in an hour, I'm posting a new chapter. This one is primarily fluff, but next chapter we get Christmas, and after that is the Masquerade! Both of those chapters are almost complete, so I'll be able to get them to you this weekend. **

**Anywho, thank you all for your patience, and thank you to all those who have read, favourited, followed, and reviewed. And thanks to Guest and E-man-dy-S for their reviews as well. If you're a recent follower or just favourited and I haven't thanked you yet, I haven't forgotten about you and I'll PM you in gratitude as soon as I have a minute. :) **

**I love you all, sorry for the delay, and I'll post again shortly!**

**Hugs,**

**Tierney **

**readpaintwrite**


	37. Chapter 37

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera**

* * *

37

The day of Carlotta's party, the eve before Christmas Eve, as it were, dawned crisp, cold, and clear, periwinkle sky softly suggesting the possibility of snowfall later. Kayla spent the day with the young half of the crew, playing Coward and Tag in the empty theatre. They stole dough and other samples from the kitchen, where ovens blazed with the effort of Christmas baking. Scurrying about the halls in a determined, laughing pack, the boys attempted to search for Christine in the hopes of continuing their "drive the Vicomte insane" plot, but neither she nor Raoul were anywhere to be found. A fact which – judging by Jamie's impressively singular focus on vengeance – was rather fortunate for the nobleman in question.

When Meg arrived to fetch Kayla to get ready to depart, the crew – shockingly – did not complain, merely extracting a promise that Kayla would return to the stage to say goodbye before she left.

Meg helped Kayla into the new dress – forest green velvet, a strange but pleasant derivation from her standard shades of blue. The skirt was long, floor length, and hugged her hips before flowing out into a wider, almost mermaid style skirt. If Agatha and Marie Clare, who altered the dress for her, were shocked by the probably scandalous fit, the two Populaire seamstresses had not commented. Black lace crossed over her collarbone on the straight neckline, weaving intricately over her shoulders before tapering away into thin designs across the hem on the back of her neck. The long sleeves hugged her arms, ending in more black lace flowing about her wrists. "Oomph." Kayla exhaled sharply as Meg tugged at the ties crossing up the back of the dress. "Any tighter and I will slap you in your face," she huffed. The ballerina laughed.

There was a chorus of awed, high pitched gasps. Kayla turned her head and saw the senior cavaliers peering through the open door, bodies and heads piled up on top of each other like puppies. "So pretty," Avère cooed.

"You're not allowed up here, go aw- AY!" Kayla grinned, the reply turning into a loud squeak as Meg yanked at the black ribbons once more. "SCREW YOU GIRY."

Her hair was unceremoniously piled up into a messy bun, a style Meg attempted to make more presentable by securing it with a black metal clip that miraculously imitated the flowery ironwork pattern of the lace. Kayla did her own makeup, girlish pink lip stick and a touch of blush, along with black mascara, pale bronze eyeshadow, and a relatively successful attempt at winged obsidian liner.

"You look like a diva." The tone of Meg's compliment bordered on dubious.

"Not as pretty as Carlotta – nor Christine for that matter – but thanks. It's not too much, is it?"

"Not for this fancy of a party, I don't believe. Carlotta will be wearing much more cosmetics than you are. Besides, you're a different type of pretty. A golden pretty."

"Just like little Giry," Leonardo called through the door as he swanned by once more.

"What are you even doing up here, man? Go away!"

"Kayla's right, go away!"

When she was finally ready, Kayla locked up her clothes – and her phone – in her trunk, and swung her cerulean cloak over her shoulders, knotting the satin ribbon with deft fingers.

"I wish you were coming with me," Kayla moaned, slipping her feet into her standard boots and grabbing the black kid slippers Carlotta had insisted on buying her from under the bed.

"I would never be invited to La Carlotta's mansion, you know that."

"Neither would Christine, to be honest, but she's still going to be there. I should just bring you. As a plus one."

"Carlotta would never allow it."

"She would if I made her."

But in the end, it was decided that Meg would stay behind; the ballet corps were going out into the city on one of their semi-annual holiday pub nights. When Kayla walked out of the dorm, the set crew was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. They were all slightly dressed up, stiff black vests and ties over their colourful button up shirts. "Where are you good looking boys going tonight?" Kayla inquired, her hand hovering gracefully over the railing as she descended.

"The cavaliers invited us to go with them to the pub," Clemens explained, ruffling his red hair almost self-consciously with one hand. "Who bought you that?"

Kayla sashayed to the bottom of the stairs and spun, emerald fabric swishing around her ankles. "If you must know, I picked it out myself."

"Good taste," Jamie nodded.

"I thought maybe the Vicomte gave you money for that," Xavier scowled. "There were some rumors."

"Really, Xavier? Need I remind you that I've been avoiding the precious patron for… what? A month, now?"

"Almost three months, actually," Baptiste corrected, sheepishly straightening his tie.

"Thanks, Baptiste. The point remains, I would never wear anything the Vicomte picked out or bought for me."

Marius smacked Xavier in the back of the head with a grin.

"Ouch! Of course you wouldn't, Abbots. My apologies."

"I thought maybe I'd steal a dance from you, mademoiselle, since you are so coldly abandoning us on the night before Christmas Eve," Jamie suggested dramatically, giving a sweeping bow.

"I hope you know this will count as your Christmas present." Kayla curtsied and held out her hand to Jamie.

"Don't mind if I do," Jamie laughed, grabbing her hand with his larger, stronger one.

They did not have any music, but at some point Dennis started whistling an Irish-sounding reel, and they danced to that. Each of the stagehands took a term, including Baptiste, whose foot-shorter height proved to be a great source of amusement for the rest of the crew.

"I've really got to go," Kayla said regretfully, giving a final curtsey to Leo, her last partner. "Y'all are the best dancers ever."

"See you in the morning, I suppose?" Jamie raised one brown brow at her.

"Yep. None of you should be hungover. Party responsibly, my friends."

"You too, Abbots."

It was with a faint sense of impending exhaustion that Kayla walked to the lobby and climbed into the carriage with the sharply dressed Firmin and Andre.

* * *

Carlotta met her at the door, dragging Enrico along with her. "Piangi and I have to socialize, silly engagement congratulations and all dat, but you'll be guarded. My cousin will make sure of dat. Won't you, Enrico?" She nudged her cousin, who was occupied with using his outstretched arm to steady Kayla as she struggled to exchange her boots for the slippers.

"Si, so I shall."

Enrico was the best party companion a girl could ask for. As a member of the Giudicelli family, he was privy to the intricacies of the Piangi and Giudicelli clans, both of whom had representatives present, as well as having detailed knowledge of the power plays and drams unfolding in the Parisian high society. He sat next to her at the head of the table, along with Carlotta and Piangi, and pointed out all of the guests and the reasons for their inclusion in the event. He was such a good conversationalist that Kayla barely even noticed the patron and the soprano at the far end of the table. And bloody hell, could he dance. "What are your plans for the holidays?" Kayla asked conversationally as they spun through the ballroom, more than one jealous female gaze cast in her direction as Enrico grinned down at her.

"Travelling, I'm afraid. I set off for Milan in the morning."

"What? So you won't be at the Masquerade?"

"Unfortunately not."

"Who's going to protect me from the Vicomte, then?"

Enrico laughed, spinning Kayla out with a flick of his wrist and then pulling her back in. "Trust me, mademoiselle…" The dark haired Italian dipped her, holding her perfectly steady as Kayla leant back. Raising her up once more, Enrico smiled at her. "You are more than capable of protecting yourself."

"Gees, now I'm blushing, thanks a lot you flattering Italian. Are you planning on coming back to Paris?"

"Not until late spring. But when I do, I shall, of course, be visiting the Populaire. Perhaps I will see you then?"

Kayla's stomach clenched guiltily. "Sure, why not?"

The music flourished to completion, and the dancing guests paused and applauded. Enrico fished a pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket. "It's almost ten 'o' clock, mademoiselle. Is there anything you require?"

"I'd take some punch. Dear heaven, is that the time already? I'm exhausted!"

He left her at some empty chairs at the edge of the room and hurried off to the refreshments tables. Kayla plopped down onto the seat and leaned down to massage her feet; the slippers were tighter than she had anticipated. Glancing up for a moment, she spotted the Vicomte moving through the crowd, travelling in her general direction and far closer than she would have liked. Hopping up from her chair, she scurried to one of the glass balcony doors, opened it carefully, and slipped through, making sure to not completely shut it behind her; she did not want to get locked out. The winter air was refreshing after the heat of the ballroom. She leaned against the icy stone rails of the balcony, staring up at the twinkling stars. There was a creak.

"Sorry, Enrico, just needed some air."

"I do not blame you in the slightest."

Kayla squeaked. A wide eyed look over her shoulder alerted her to the Vicomte standing by the door. "It's quite warm in there, you had a good idea," the nobleman stated casually.

"What the hell do you want?" she snarled, clenching her hands into fists and taking another step back.

"What I have wanted since I first met you; to talk." He took a measured step forward.

Kayla straightened up, her back almost military in its posture. "Sorry, not a chance. Not after the crap you pulled. You can't just chase a girl and expect her to be receptive to your supposed reasonableness. Excuse me."

The Vicomte stepped to the side, blocking her path to the door. "I'm afraid it can't wait."

"Oh yes it can."

"I do not believe that you understand my situation. I have allowed you to remain at the Populaire for this long for one reason and one reason alone…"

"My friendly rapport with the managers, respect of the crew, and my stunningly driven work ethic?"

"…I can see the markings of greatness in you. You have ambition, Mademoiselle Abbots. You know what you want and will not stop until you get it. I am much the same. Of course, you aren't a star, like my Christine…"

"You sure know how to flatter a woman, don't you Vicomte?"

"…But you have your own special skills. _Valuable_ skills. Skills that you know how to use."

"My skills. The skills that are mine. The skills I specifically practice. Those skills?"

He ignored her. "You are ambitious, driven, beautiful, and very good with people. You have all the markings of a great lady, even if you do not have a title of your own."

"Is there somewhere you're going with this?"

"We could be very valuable to each other."

"Is this a proposal?"

"Of sorts."

"Need I remind you, you're marrying _Christine_, you twat."

"Of course I am marrying Christine."

There was a tense pause.

"Oh HELL no! You are not suggesting what I think you're suggesting!"

"It is a perfectly civilized arrangement, let me assure you."

"_Christine_ is my _friend_, you _devious_ piece of _shit_!"

"Far greater men than I have done worse and prospered. Christine will love me regardless."

"Are you out of your bleeding mind? You don't think I'd seriously consider being your _mistress_?!"

"You do not see the benefits now, but you will. I am a patient man. I can wait." Smiling sinisterly, he took another step towards her. "You are a beautiful woman, Kayla. You deserve all finer things in life. Imagine it, a title, money, power, and prestige, all the gems and dresses money can buy…" Closer and closer he stalked, reaching out a white gloved hand to touch her face. "A fine home, a family, children; you could have it all, Kayla." His fingertips hovered over her cheek. He leant forward, smiling with soft triumph.

Her knee shot upward and hit him squarely in the family jewels. Wheezing, he bent over. Kayla took the chance and grabbed his wrist, using her shoulder as leverage against his side and flipping him ruthlessly onto his back. The snow broke his landing somewhat, but the thump was still quite loud. His eyes were shut, his bronze hair tousled. He moaned. Stepping over his prostrate form, Kayla strode hurriedly to the door and squeezed back inside.

She found Christine seated in the corner, watching the violinist play with wistful brown eyes. "Hey, um, Chris? I found Raoul outside. I think that he's had a little too much to drink."

The soprano's eyes widened in shock. "Is he alright? And are you feeling ill, Kayla? Your face is quite flushed!"

"Too much champagne maybe, or it could be that it's hot in here. I'd recommend trying to find someone to help you with Raoul, he didn't seem to be in a good state of mind."

"Merci, Kayla, but what… Kayla?"

But Kayla had already made herself scarce, mortified with even the thought of Christine finding out about what Raoul had proposed.

* * *

She spent the remainder of the evening upstairs in Carlotta's private sitting room, playing with the seven toy poodle puppies that the diva owned. Minnie, Jeff, and Fitzherbert were delighted to see her. All the puppies had their names carved into tiny golden charms attached to satin ribbons collars, and Kayla noted with delight that the three newest additions had been christened with the names she had chosen. The other four were just as sweet, and were named Viviache, Piccolo, Allegretto, and Aria, all Italian musical terms, a commonality Kayla found immensely amusing.

"Abbots?" A sharp rap on the door frame tore Kayla's attention away from the wriggling fur balls surrounding her. Carlotta stood in the doorway, arms crossed and staring at her almost sympathetically. "The fop and Daäe have gone 'ome. He wanted to speak with you for some reason, but I told 'im you were indisposed. He did not seem very 'appy about dat."

"You believe me, don't you?" Tears prickled behind Kayla's eyes. "He's going to try to get me fired, Carlotta."

"No, no, no, don't cry in front of me, Abbots. We're not at dat stage in our friendship just yet. And I will not let 'im."

Kayla laughed haltingly and hugged Minnie, who was pawing at her skirt and whining. "Thanks Carlotta."

"Do you want to come downstairs? Last hurrah, and all dat? And dere is still some of dat chocolate cake left. And you might need something stronger to drink than champagne."

Kayla scratched Fitzherbert behind one of his floppy ears. "Don't mind if I do."

Almost all the guests were still present when she and the diva finally emerged from upstairs. Music played sweetly and softly, and everyone was still dancing. "Pardon me, my love, but I believe I owe da little signorina a dance," Piangi boomed cheerfully as Carlotta and Kayla wandered into the ballroom.

"Whatever for?" Kayla asked, the baritone's enthusiasm drawing a smile out of her despite her black mood.

"I feel dat da little lady who 'elped me propose to my future wife deserves at least a dance, no?"

"Touché. Lead on, signor."

* * *

It was only once she and the managers had returned to the Populaire – after she had said her thanks and goodnights – that she slipped through the halls and into Box Five curled up on the velvet seat, and let her tears go. She cried for her family back home, for the dangerous situation she found herself in, for the fact that she had said her final goodbye to Enrico earlier that evening, and for the fact that whether she stayed here forever or returned home to her own time, she would lose people. Sobbing with grief and exhaustion, Kayla remained blissfully unaware of the guardian angel watching from the column, standing guard over his little magician.

* * *

**Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who followed, favourited, and reviewed last chapter, and to E-man-dy-S, RAINBOWNEMESIS, and DetectiveOfTheOpera who also reviewed. **

**For all those who wished me luck on my Spanish exam, thank you. However, judging by the extreme emotional distress exhibited by the entire class and the uproar of swearing when the TA left the room for a minute, all fifty of us are going to fail. One girl actually burst into tears and had to leave, it was so difficult. So yay. **

**I was late for work because I was trying to post, but my fricking keyboard wasn't working very well, so I'm posting it now. But still, another post on Saturday, which was my goal. Anyway please review and tell me what you think! Follow or favourite if the mood strikes you. The masquerade chapter should be up soon!**

**Hugs, **

**Tierney **


	38. Chapter 38

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. **

* * *

38

Kayla woke up alone in the dorm, faint light sparkling weakly through the floral designs of the frost on the window panes. When she struggled up onto her elbows and blearily peered out, she was greeted with the sight of a perfect winter wonderland and thick, dancing clouds of falling snow. After their wild hurrah of the night before, the hushed air of the room and general air of abandonment suggested that the female ballet corps had all returned to their homes for Christmas. All except the youngest Giry, who breezed through the door just has Kayla burrowed back under the blankets again. "Are you up?" Meg hopped onto the end of Kayla's bed, poking at her feet.

Kayla curled up into a ball. "No." Her voice was muffled, even to herself.

"Come on, Kayla!" Meg whined, bouncing up and down on the mattress. The little ballerina tugged on Kayla's blankets. Kayla tugged them back, and there was an immediate tug of war over the quilt. "You don't understand, Kayla," Meg yelped, jolting forward as Kayla gave a particularly vicious pull. "There's cinnamon rolls in the kitchen. Everyone's left except me, you, the younger set crew, and the senior cavaliers, so it's just you and me with a bunch of boys. Boys who are going to eat all the cinnamon rolls if we don't go downstairs right _now_!"

With a determined yank, Meg finally succeeded in tearing the quilt off of Kayla's scrunched up form. Kayla shrieked. Meg stood, beaming triumphantly, and hurled the blankets back at Kayla's head. "Come on, my fellow mademoiselle, get dressed and meet me in the kitchens!" The petite prima ballerina disappeared down the hall.

Kayla rolled out of bed and let herself drop onto the floor. And immediately leapt up, screaming as the icy floor hit her skin. Shivering and fully awake, she scurried over to her trunk, hurriedly unlocked it and immediately began pulling clothes over her head, changing under her nightgown like it was a tent, trying to conserve the little body heat remaining. She was a phantom herself today, black work shirt and slacks, hair loosely tied back with a black ribbon.

"Gone into mourning, have we Abbots?" Jamie called as Kayla shuffled through the door of the dining room. There was icing on his cheek.

"It's to match my soul," Kayla returned flatly, gently nudging the brown haired boy out of the way and scooting onto the bench.

"Out of sorts?" Avère asked sympathetically. There were hints of shadows under his eyes. "You don't look like you had a good night."

"Oh, leave her alone, Avère," Meg said sternly, emerging from the kitchen carrying a tray of steaming pastries. "You know what kind of reputation La Carlotta's parties have."

"Oh, the party was fine," Kayla corrected quickly. "Great, actually. The guests were more of an issue."

"Will our vengeance services be required?" Clemens inquired from the far end of the table.

Kayla shrugged as Meg reached over her shoulder to place a plate piled high with cinnamon rolls on the table in front of her. Jamie stretched his gangly arms up and attempted to snatch a bun off of the tray. Meg smacked his hand away, and Jamie lowered his arm again, looking rather more triumphant than scolded. As she moved away, a bun dropped out of the air and landed on the table in front of the brown haired stagehand. Said pastry was immediately snatched up by Baptiste, who was sitting on his other side. Jamie swiveled slowly to glare at him. "The protection of Abbots has made you far too bold, my little apprentice."

Baptiste beamed, his cheeks puffing out like a squirrel's.

Meg slid the tray into the centre of the table, and it was immediately covered by outstretched hands. The dancer sat down next to Kayla on the bench, a second tray in hand. Kayla felt the terror of the night before dissipating as she nibbled on the sugary, sticky pastry and watched her fellow cast and crew members tearing at their breakfast like a pack of wolves.

* * *

A blanket accompanied her to the lair, hanging about her shoulders like a cloak. The drafts were icy, and the air became even colder as she reached the lake. Shuffling over the stones, the edges of the quilt slithered over the ground as she pulled out the chair of her desk and plopped down. Shoulders hunched, she reached out for a brush and tugged the book pages towards her. The jar of sealant was viscous with cold. Kayla swore.

"Language, language," a deep voice chided.

Kayla's hand shot up and was seconds away from gesturing before she considered the consequences of that action. She lowered her hand and picked up the brush again. "Morning. Merry Christmas Eve."

"Oh, that is today? That would explain the quiet."

Examining the clump of sealant clinging to the end of her brush, Kayla blew on it, trying to warm it up and make it easier to smooth over the page. "Thought that quiet would be just your cup of tea. Peace and silence for once."

"Yes, very relaxing I am sure, if I were not occupied with determining what kind of circumstances would lead to my assistant crying in my box at one 'o' clock in the morning."

Kayla very slowly turned around, narrowing her eyes at him from under the quilt over her head. "I'm your assistant now? Sweet. Do I get a raise?"

"You are avoiding the subject."

"You can't just intrude upon a moment of weakness, asshole," Kayla snapped, wrapping her blanket under her chin and slouching in her chair as she swivelled back to face the set book. The pages were sharply pulled out from under her hands.

"I do not appreciate your tone," Erik stated coldly, taking the brush out of her fingers and placing it and the pages on the other side of the desk, out of her reach. "You will tell me what was wrong. And you will tell me now."

"First of all, you have no right whatsoever to force me to talk. Second of all, the magic word is please. Thirdly, I will talk when I am good and ready, which is possibly never. And fourth, I will talk in whatever damn tone I want, thanks."

Erik's fists clenched. Kayla peered up at him from under her makeshift hood and raised her fists. "I can fight you, and I will," she whispered. "I'm a ninja, bro."

Erik snorted, and his hands relaxed. "Why is that funny?" Kayla scoffed.

"The words you use do not make sense," Erik chuckled. His green gaze fell on her again, and the amused smile vanished. "I need to know what is wrong. You are of no use to me in a deteriorated mental state."

"And yet again it all comes down to the effing opera," Kayla groaned, slamming her head down on the desk. "And my usefulness. Plus why are you talking, you're like the King of deteriorated mental state."

"I am not the one who snuck into a haunted opera box after midnight on Christmas Eve to cry like a small child," Erik sneered.

"Ah yes, your sympathy is _inspiring_. I _really_ want to divulge my feelings _now_."

"Mademoiselle, forgive me but I am days away from initiating my triumph and revealing to the world the greatest work I shall ever create. I have come too far to put my plans on hold because of a child too stubborn to admit that something is wrong."

"I'm twenty freaking years old, Erik, I'm an adult."

"Really? Because you are acting like an infant."

Kayla slammed her hands down on the desk. Erik flinched. "Do you want to know what's wrong? Really? Do you?"

"Yes, I do," Erik growled, the side of his face not covered with porcelain contorted with anger.

"Well, then, here's the master list: this is the first Christmas I haven't spent with my family, who I might never actually see again, Enrico, Carlotta's cousin and my ally, has gone back to Italy and I'm never going to see _him_ again either, and the precious Vicomte basically proposed that I sleep with him behind Christine's back. _So forgive me if I seem a little upset_!" And, against her better judgement, she burst into angry tears.

Erik was completely silent. _Woah, hormones, slow down_, her brain railed, but her tear glands did not respond to the request, and she cried harder. Sobs racked her body with such force that she was actually having trouble breathing. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Erik standing awkwardly a couple paces away. Almost timidly, he took a few steps closer, dragged another chair over, and sat down next to her. His face was blank.

He did not say a word as the time dragged on. When she finally ran out of tears, she huddled under her quilt, sniffling and breathing shallowly, her shoulders still shaking. "Might I recommend summoning the kitten that lives in your little magic box," Erik mumbled quietly. Kayla gave a laughing sob, but pulled her phone out of her pocket and scrolled through her photos until she found the gif Erik had suggested. Time seemed to freeze as she and Erik stared at the kitten gif, this time with Kayla copying Erik's calm breathing.

"You're not mad?" she choked out finally, peering up at the stoic figure next to her.

"No. You did nothing wrong. The precious Vicomte, on the other hand…"

"I feel like it would kind of – forgive the pun – _kill_ the Christmas mood if the Vicomte mysteriously died."

"You would let him live? After all he has done?"

"Well… yeah. He's a little kid."

"He is twenty one years old. He is no child."

"I'm twenty. I'm a child. Sorry if my outward appearance confused you. And if I'm a little kid, Raoul definitely qualifies as a whiny little kid who wants what he can't have. But I digress. Just don't kill him, please? It'd really upset Chri- I mean, people. Make it my Christmas present."

"You would like the Vicomte's life as your Christmas present. Is that what I am hearing?"

"I guess."

"You will owe me a favour."

"I've already almost finished your bloody set book, what more do you need from me?"

"I would like to commission a portrait."

"Um, okay, what kind? If it's of who I'm thinking of, you've kind of already got a full scale model."

"No, not… Ms. Daäe." His voice wavered as he mentioned Christine for the first time in months. Kayla cocked her head at him in confusion. "I would like a portrait of you, actually."

"What? Why?"

"Though it pains me to say it, I do owe a great deal to you. Your contributions to my designs and to the set book have allowed me to put a great deal more effort into my opera. If you do, in fact, return to your own time, I would like something to remember you by."

There was a moment of silence.

"Aw, you sentimental little ghostie! You _do_ like me after all!"

"Can a man not appreciate his assistant without being accused of sentiment?"

"Oh, don't give me that, we're friends now! Fine, I'll make you a portrait. I hate drawing myself, but whatever, I'll do it. And while we're on the subject of not killing people, could I trouble you to not kill Piangi?"

"Why would I kill that harmless fool?"

"I don't know… too much adrenaline? Just don't do it, promise?"

"Very well."

"I'd hug you, but you're not much for physical contact, so I'm going to hug you mentally, okay?"

"That sounds strange, but the sentiment is appreciated."

* * *

Once he deemed her sufficiently calm, Erik returned to the organ, pounding away on the keys as Kayla finished up the last pages. When she was finished, she hurried back upstairs. The crew was dogpiled on the empty, echoing stage, warbling off-key renditions of Christmas carols. Kayla ended up napping on the floor next to Jamie.

Meg found them a few hours later to summon them for supper. Kayla and Meg sat at the head of the table, being waited on by the cavaliers and the set crew. It was all very gratifying, Kayla though to herself as she grinned at the merry, rambunctious company. There was a pang in her chest as she watched Meg laughing at Jamie's attempt at stand-up comedy; she missed Samantha.

They went to bed early, calling out hushed goodnights as they scurried off to their separate dormitories.

* * *

"Kayla. Kayla. Wake up. Kayla."

Kayla groaned and swatted her hand clumsily in the direction of the voice.

"Kayla. Wake up. I've got a ribbon tied on me and I don't know why." A finger poked her shoulder. "Kayla."

"Fine, fine, I'm up," Kayla moaned, forcing her eyes open. Meg was perched on the bed next to her, her golden hair framing her face like a curly, perfect halo. Her cheery brown eyes were staring at her inquisitively. The dancer raised her hand so Kayla could see the red ribbon knotted around her wrist, the end trailing down to the floor.

"I can't find the end of it. And you've got one too."

Kayla blinked tiredly and lifted her head to glare at her own arm. Sure enough, a ribbon, this time indigo blue, was secured to her own arm. "What the…" Kayla breathed, her voice trailing off as she saw the lines of crimson and blue snaking under the door. The mystery nudging her bleary mind into full consciousness, Kayla struggled up and threw back the covers. "Come on, Giry, the game's afoot," she crowed, letting the silky fabric wind around her fingers as she followed it to the door.

The two girls followed the coloured trail out the door, up the corridor, and down the stairs. It twisted and turned, looping around corners and over lamp brackets, requiring Kayla to lift Meg up on more than one occasion so the dancer could extract herself from the little traps. It led past the kitchen and down a corridor Kayla rarely ventured down. Both ends were tied to an iron door handle at the end of the hall. "Looks like we've reached our destination," Kayla smirked, tugging at the knot at the end of the ribbon and looping it around the thick gauntlet of indigo laced over her entire forearm.

"Wait, Kayla, we're in our nightgowns!" Meg whispered worriedly, nervously adjusting the pile of cherry ribbon in her arms.

Kayla looked back at her in fond exasperation. "It's not like we're naked, dearie. Come on, adventure awaits!" She pushed open the door…

…And was immediately tackled by the set crew. "Merry Christmas!" Jamie yelled in her ear. All the young men shouted similar greetings, and Meg was receiving the same treatment from the cavaliers a few feet behind her. A fire was roaring in the stone fireplace, and tiny candles were glittering on a small pine tree in the corner of the room. The boys switched places, and Kayla was suddenly surrounded by cavaliers.

"Merry Christmas, Abbots," Avère grinned, ruffling her loose blonde hair with his large hand.

"First Christmas at the Populaire for you, so we thought we'd do something special!" Leonardo smiled at her, his chocolate eyes twinkling.

"You guys!" Kayla admonished teasingly, punching the lead cavalier lightly on the shoulder. "Getting rudely awoken and then attacked on Christmas morning, I'm touched."

But a surprise adventure and ribbons were not all they had planned. There was a pile of wrapped packages under the little Christmas tree. "Oh crap, no. You didn't."

They had. They all made Kayla and Meg sit next to the fire and one by one delivered the small gifts directly to their laps. Small and varied, the mini presents were all thoughtful and adorable. Hair ribbons, sweets, pencils, fudge, tiny little wood carvings, and her own pocket watch were among the objects that found their way to the stack at her feet. "This is too much, you guys," Kayla chuckled, grinning madly.

"Who on earth gave me this?" Meg demanded, brandishing a bracelet in the air. It was gold, probably just a gold coloured alloy, but it was beautiful, curved and delicate, sparkling with tiny blue and white gems.

There was an almost choreographed motion of simultaneous head-shaking. "Not me," they all chorused.

"Well, it's pretty. I'm keeping it," Meg shrugged, slipping it onto her thin wrist. "Thank you to whichever of you silly boys did this."

As one, all the boys glanced out of the corners of their eyes at Jamie, whose face remained perfectly calm but for the smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

"Wait, just remembered, I've got crap for you people too," Kayla squeaked, scrambling to her feet and bolting out the door. She reappeared a couple of minutes later carrying the tiny little portraits she had doodled of the crew and the cavaliers in anticipation of needing inexpensive Christmas presents, and she had painted watercolour daisies for Meg.

"Mercy me, look at how cute I am!" Jamie exclaimed, staring at his tiny drawing. "I'm keeping this forever."

The rest of Christmas passed in a state of calm. Carlotta stopped by to give Kayla a lavishly wrapped gift, a miniature coal black top hat attached to a headband, adorned with a veil of diamond studded black lace and a cerulean ribbon. "I thought you would find it funny," the diva snickered as Kayla pulled it out of its box.

"I don't know when the _hell_ I'm going to wear this, but it's adorable and I'm going to wear it right now, actually. Thank you."

Carlotta was just as grateful, if not even more so, for the ink and pen drawing of the diva and Piangi that Kayla had drawn. "I love it, Abbots. It is so… classy."

When the diva left – she and Piangi were going to one of the socialite Christmas parties of the Parisian elite – Kayla rejoined the rest of the crew in the dining hall, her new hat perched jauntily on her head. Meg had vanished, likely off to celebrate with her mother. "That's new," Clemens commented, pointing at the top hat.

"You look like a magician."

Kayla glanced at Jamie quizzically. "What?"

"A magician," Jamie repeated. Kayla tilted her head and studied her reflection in the back of her spoon.

"I do, don't I?"

It was a strange thought; Erik had called her "little magician" a couple of times now. She shrugged the coincidence off and focused on enjoying Christmas dinner with the boys.

* * *

Her stomach full of food, Kayla stumbled into the dormitory at midnight, high off chocolate and witty conversation. She turned on one of the gas lights and made her way through the dim room to her bed.

There was a white ribbon tied to the bed post.

Kayla chuckled and leaned over to untie it. One last adventure before bed.

The silk wound out the door and down the stairs once more, but veered off into the wings, then onto the stage, across the stage, and back into the wings once more, spinning a labyrinth through the dark. So gradually that she barely noticed, the ribbon slipping through her fingers slowly darkened, from dove white to cloud grey to stone grey. She wrapped it over her shoulders like a scarf. By the time she truly noticed the gradient, Kayla had arrived at the door of her office, where a storm cloud line trailed under the door of her office. Fishing the chain of keys from under the collar of her shirt, Kayla's fingers brushed against the warm rose pendant hanging at her throat. One of her few connections to her own time; it was strange that she had almost forgotten about it. Shaking her head and focusing on the task at hand, she riffled through the ring for the office key and reached down to unlock the door. The lock clicked and the door swung open without protest. Her eyes followed the ribbon across the rug, over the floorboards, and up to an obsidian bow attached to an iron structure that Kayla was 237% sure had not been there before. And draped over the metal form was a dress. And not just any dress. It was the dress she had doodled in the lair.

Kayla stared at the dress in complete silence. With great strength of will, she turned around, set the bundle of ribbon on the desk, walked out of the room, locked the door behind her, and wandered back to the dorm. She would deal with _that_ particular complication in the morning. One thing she knew for certain:

New Year's Eve was going to be a night to remember.

* * *

**Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, or favourited last chapter, and if I haven't thanked any new followers/favouriters already, I will be doing so shortly by PM. Thanks to Guest, Guest, and E-man-dy-S for their guest reviews. **

**I know, I'm sorry, this isn't Masquerade, but the set crew had their own plans for Christmas and refused to cooperate with me. Plus, I want to make sure the Masquerade is perfect for you guys. Please accept my apologies. **

**I will finish up the Masquerade chapter and will post it by tomorrow night at the latest. **

**Thank you all for reading!**

**Hugs,**

**Tierney **


	39. Chapter 39

**Author's Note: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

39

Everyone slept in the next morning, and the opera house was contentedly quiet as Kayla sauntered back down to her office. She sat in the wooden chair, feet propped up on the edge of her desk, and stared at the gown displayed in the corner of the room. It was gorgeous, that was for certain, and the longer she looked at it the clearer it became that this was not, in fact, the dress she had designed. Sure, it contained some of the elements she had drawn; the _Beauty and the Beast_-esque bodice and ribbon-like sleeves, for one, but it was clear that her initial drawing had been expanded far beyond what she had originally envisioned. The colours were simple, black, white, and blue, and a black domino mask was perched on the desk in front of her. It looked far more like something from her own time period than that of 1870s France. "I'm going to cause a damn scandal," she muttered, narrowing her eyes as she attempted to mentally measure how the dress would fit on her. Her analysis concluded that the skirt was going to be fairly short, and the bodice would be tight. It looked like it would fit, however, though how Erik had gotten her measurements was something Kayla refused to consider.

The next few days passed in a haze of food and relaxation, the most common activity being the stage hands and the cavaliers taking communal naps on the stage, lounging about on the ground like puppies. On the 27th, the senior set crew, the rest of the ballet corps, and the managers returned to the Populaire. And Kayla was immediately called into the manager's office. Luckily, when the summons arrived, Carlotta was visiting, and insisted on joining her.

"We have had a complaint from the Vicomte," Firmin stated when Kayla and the diva are seated.

"Is it appropriate to have La Carlotta…?" Andre began awkwardly.

"I dare you to try and make me leave," Carlotta snapped.

"She's staying," Kayla agreed flatly. The managers exchanged a confused glance before Firmin spoke again.

"The Vicomte seemed concerned for your mental wellbeing, and claims that you behaved aggressively towards him. Now, he wished to be clear that your job is not at risk and that he harbours no resentment, but that he would like to take a more active role in the set department. He believes the sharing of the management would help make your job easier."

"He proposed having some meetings with you to discuss such an arrangement," Andre suggested cheerfully.

"No."

"I beg your pardon, signora?"

"Like Carlotta said, no," Kayla interjected angrily.

"The Vicomte only has your best interests at heart," Firmin coaxed.

"Answer me this, was _Faust_ a success or not?"

"It was…"

"Was the set and the backstage well organized during _Faust_? Or _Il Muto_, for that matter?"

"Of course, but –"

"Was the Vicomte involved in set management for either of those performances?"

"No, but –"

"I rest my case. I can do my job perfectly well without the Vicomte's help. If I have to take it easier next rehearsal round, any slack will be picked up by Jamie and Germaine. They are my second-in-commands, not the Vicomte. And I certainly won't make a point of having meetings with him if our patron insists on making up blatant lies about me."

"If our patron wishes it, I really must insist –"

Carlotta slammed her hand down on the arm of her chair. The managers started back in astonishment. "If you try to make Abbots 'ave meetings with da Vicomte dat she does not wish to 'ave, I swear to you dat I will quit. And it will take far more dan Abbots and doggies to bring me back."

"Really, signora…"

"Look at Mademoiselle Abbots and tell me dat she would be anything but respectful to da Vicomte! She is not mad, and da Vicomte is ridiculous to think she is! If anything it was da Vicomte that behaved aggressively, ask any of da guests at my last two parties."

"Signorina-"

"Dis is her first Christmas away from 'er family! It should be perfectly reasonable that she is not feeling 'er best! And da Vicomte trying to speak to her constantly when she does not wish it does not 'elp! If you make Abbots share her position with da Vicomte, I will quit! Dat is my last word on da matter!"

Utterly defeated, the managers let Carlotta and Kayla leave.

"Nice one, Carlotta."

"He would 'ave… I don't know what he would 'ave done, but it would not 'ave been good for you. Proud men ar' dangerous."

Not another word was spoken by the managers concerning the matter.

* * *

Christine returned to the Populaire on the 30th, with Raoul sticking to her like a shadow. Fortunately, Raoul left her side for just enough time for Jamie to initiate his welcoming committee. The Raoul Revenge Plot had only escalated in light of recent events; though they were not privy to the more scandalous details, the stage crew, and therefore their close friends the cavaliers, were well aware of Kayla's flight through the hallways and the assault at Carlotta's Christmas party. Jamie had taken the affronts greatly to heart, and adopted jealously as his weapon of choice. The most recent attack was a grand scheme which involved every single member of the adolescent stage hands and senior cavaliers approaching the young soprano with a pick up line, all of which were completely original and had not been provided by Kayla. So upon her arrival, Christine was flirted with by twenty three different young men. Jamie went last, and Raoul returned just as the hazel haired stagehand was bestowing a kiss on the patron's secret fiancé's pale hand.

"Beverly!" Raoul yelled, marching forward furiously.

Jamie smiled and saluted before he fled.

The young men assembled cheered as Jamie raced away with the Vicomte hot on his heels.

Jamie did not reappear until dinner, and he received a standing ovation as he strode triumphantly into the dining hall. "I wasn't able to lose him until backstage. I had to hide up in the catwalk."

* * *

Kayla went down to the lair on the 30th. Erik was sitting at the organ, staring at something in his hands. "Hi, what's that?"

He held up a couple sheets of paper. "Did you leave these on purpose?"

Kayla squinted. He was brandishing some of her small drawings at her. "Oh, yeah, that was for Christmas, I was kind of broke… which one is that?"

Erik leaned over the paper, bringing it a little closer to the light of the candles. "It's the one of the outside of the Populaire… and the sketch of the stage… and the one where I am tiny and wrapped up in a cloak and my head is proportionally way too large for my body."

"Ah, yes, chibi Erik."

"Chibi?"

"It's a cartoon style."

There was a moment of silence.

"It's strangely intriguing. Thank you, mademoiselle."

"Merry Christmas. Oh, and speaking of Christmas, what's with the taffeta extravaganza in my office?"

"For the masquerade, of course. What else would it be for?"

"Did you seriously take all that time and make that?"

"The score is complete, the binding of the set book is nearly finished. I had a few moments to spare."

"A few moments? Really? How long did it take you to make that?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Did you stay up all night to finish that?"

"I do not sleep, mademoiselle."

"Well, I appreciate it anyway. I really love it, I can't wait to wear it."

"I hope so."

"...But just one thing, did you make the skirt that short on purpose? It's not like it's that short… well, maybe for 1870, but it's not that short for my taste. Just didn't seem like something you'd design, that's all."

It may just have been a trick of the candlelight, but Kayla could have sworn she saw Erik blush. When he spoke, however, his voice was even. "You do not strike me as the kind of woman who wishes to be mere decoration. And judging by your strange affinity for trousers, you appreciate mobility."

"Quite right. Just checking," Kayla grinned. "Do you have _your_ costume done?"

"Yes, I do. Your notes on your sketches were… most helpful."

Kayla clapped her hands excitedly. "We are going to look absolutely fabulous, darling," she drawled.

Erik sighed and shook his head. "It feels like you are speaking a whole different language at times, mademoiselle."

Kayla laughed. "Well, I don't speak the language of music that you seem to be fluent in, so I suppose we're even."

* * *

Most of her time the morning of the 31st was devoted to calming the managers through all the finer preparation details. Nevertheless everything went smoothly; all the decorations and culinary delicacies arrived as scheduled. At noon, Carlotta arrived in a carriage and swept Kayla and her dress away to her mansion to begin the all-important task of getting ready.

"Are you ready to go, Abbots? We're fashionably late already."

The prima donna's question carried from the hall outside hours later. Kayla stared at herself in the mirror, twisting and turning to survey Erik's design from all angles. "Yeah, gimme a minute," she called back. The click-clack of Carlotta's heels moved off.

Kayla turned away from the glass, glancing critically at the black taffeta skirt embroidered with silver stars, the layer open at the front to reveal white silk above the layers upon layers of fluffy dove tulle, and tight bodice, silver embroidered black hugging her sides and ivory white covering the front of her torso. Dark cerulean sleeves hung off her shoulders, leaving her collarbone and shoulders bare, as well as her arms. A sash of the same blue shade wrapped loosely around her, held to her arms by silver bands around her biceps. Slightly lighter blue silk striped widely from her right hip to the gold embroidered hem of the knee length skirt. Cocking her head, she looked herself up and down, from the small silver moon on the edge of her mask to the black slippers trimmed with cerulean ribbon and silver stars. Dark cerulean ribbons wove up her ankles and calves. She picked her own addition off of the dressing table: the tiny top hat. She stuck it on her head, tucking the black headband beneath waved locks of blonde hair. She studied herself in the mirror as she tied the ribbon of her mask around the back of her head. With her face half-concealed, dark blue eyes peering out behind the black material, Kayla could only see traces of herself in the woman in the mirror. She did not look like Kayla Abbots, set crew manager, but she did not resemble Kayla Abbots, Fine Arts student, either. Tilting her head, she smiled at her reflection. The spectre beamed almost seductively back. Tonight, Kayla was not herself; tonight, she was the Magician.

* * *

Carlotta's carriage pulled to a stop in front of the Opera House. Fireworks exploded like splashes of paint across the ink black sky, colours twinkling like gems amongst diamond stars. Carlotta pulled and yanked at her long gold skirt as she struggled out of the carriage and onto the snow dusted steps. As she emerged, the crowds began to cheer, greeting their beloved prima donna with loud adoration. Kayla nervously adjusted the wide silk ribbon of her simple midnight black domino and tugged on one of the wavy locks of her loose hair. Her hair was down, a rare occurrence on which Carlotta had insisted. Piangi too had exited the coach, and the engaged couple was ascending majestically up the steps through crowds of finely dressed guests and into the Populaire.

Kayla tucked her hair back behind her ear and scooted off of the velvet seat, taffeta rustling as she shuffled awkwardly to the door. Carlotta's coachman offered his arm and helped her out. Her bare calves were freezing, snowflakes landing with icy precision on her uncovered shoulders. The other invitees did not spare her a glance as she moved with a rather nervous calmness through the empty wake that Carlotta and Piangi had left behind. She caught up to her companions at the doors. The diva looked her up and down once more, one black eyebrow raised critically. "I do not know who designed dat, but it _is_ perfect for you. Even if it will give de Vicomte a 'eart attack."

"Gees, Carlotta, thanks. Nothing to bolster my confidence like bringing Raoul into it."

The prima donna shrugged and prodded Kayla's exposed shoulder with a sharp black gloved finger. "Unfortunately, _dis_ will bring him into it whether you like it or not. _Venire_, inside." She took Piangi's arm and dragged her fiancé into the Populaire.

"Monsieur Andre!"

Firmin's loud shout stopped Kayla in her tracks. The gold coated manager wore curling fake rams' horns and held a gold half mask up to his face. A poodle-haired platinum blonde woman was draped over his arm like a scarf. Andre approached his fellow manager in the guise of a rooster, in midnight black with an elaborate red piece and a matching mask, and a giggling white haired woman in ivory and white was gripping his hand. As the two managers stopped in front of each other, they dropped their masks and grinned. Violins and horns swelled from inside the opera house, perfectly replicating the familiar tune. Kayla chuckled; a musical indeed.

"Monsieur Firmin!"

"_Dear Andre, what a splendid party_!"

"_The prelude to a bright new year!_"

"_Quite a night, I'm impressed_…"

"_Well, one does one's best!_" Andre turned in Kayla's direction and gave a short little bow. Her red lips curled up of their own volition.

"_Here's to us!_" Firmin sang, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"_A toast for the city!_"

"_What a pity that the Phantom can't be here!_" The two men and their tittering companions posed dramatically for a photograph, and the camera flashed brightly.

"Abbots!" Leonardo stepped beside her and nudged her shoulder. "You look quite nice," he complimented.

Kayla turned to the lead cavalier and smiled. The dancer was only recognizable by his black hair and voice; his mask, half white, half black, covered the entirety of his face. Crisp black coattails covered a pale gold waistcoat, a bowtie of the same metallic hue, and black slacks. "Merci, Leo. You don't look too shabby yourself."

"Come inside, Avère and the prima ballerinas are here as well… we'll be the best dancers here, join our triumph, Abbots!"

Kayla strode into the crowded room with her head held high, Leonardo's hand tugging her gently through the swirling masses of guests. Gold, black, and white, or any combination thereof, seemed to be in fashion for the evening. There was a flash of pink and bronze lined obsidian in her peripheral vision, the new shades vanishing as the lead cavalier pulled her deeper into the crowd.

"_Masquerade! Paper faces on parade,_

_Masquerade! Hide your face so the world will never find you!_

_Masquerade! Every face a different shade, _

_Masquerade! Look around, there's another mask behind you_!"

All around her the voices soared, singing their perfect notes in eerie unison. Tripping lightly up the marble stairs, Kayla found both her hands snatched, one by Leonardo and the other by Avère. The blonde dancer was attired in a cap with cat ears, a sable coat swishing around his narrow hips and sparkling with jeweled embroidery. Grey eyes glittered mischievously from behind a black domino. "Black, white, and blue. An interesting choice," Avère greeted leaning down to plant a kiss on her hand. "What identity have you assumed tonight, my lady?"

Kayla laughed. "I never even thought to ask!"

"So you were not involved?" His eyes glanced over her bare shoulders, down the wide short skirt, and down to her bare legs and black slippers. "That would explain the economical fabric usage and feminine design…"

"Know what's good for you and shut up, Avère."

* * *

"_Flash of mauve, splash of puce_

_Fool and king, ghoul and goose_

_Green and black, queen and priest_

_Trace of rouge, face of beast_

_Faces!_"

Select members of the cast and ballet corps were gathered up on the landing of the stairs, engaging in a friendly dance competition as other guests watched from the balcony above and from the dance floor below. Reyer, in his customary suit and a simple silver striped mask, watched the frivolity from the next level up as he conducted the musicians.

"_Take your turn, take a ride, _

_On the merry -go-round, in an inhuman race_

_Eye of gold, true is false, who is who?_

_Curl of lip, swirl of gown, _

_Ace of hearts, face of clown_

_Faces!_

_Drink it in, drink it up, till you've drowned_

_In the light, in the sound_

_But who can name the face?"_

Avère appeared with flutes of sparkling champagne for her and Gaelle Leroux, the other prima ballerina. Though very different in personality from Kayla, Gaelle was very close in age, and in that fact alone the two girls found quite a bit of common ground. They were engaged in a discussion of the pros and cons of being the subject of hero worship Leonardo descended and re-ascended the steps, waiting patiently as the guests in the informal queue ahead of his took their respective turns on the "stage".

"_Masquerade! Grinning yellows, spinning reds,_

_Masquerade! Take your fill, let the spectacle astound you!"_

As the previous dancer skipped aside, Leonardo bounded into the centre of the landing, freezing in place before snapping back into graceful mechanical motions, twisting limbs and isolating his movements with all the precision of an automaton. The crowd cheered as Leonardo leapt forward and pulled Kayla towards him. Shrieking, Kayla let the young man position her arms in his as they moved into a mechanical waltz. Stopping and freezing and dancing in motorised twists and slides, Kayla noted with a grin that their improvised style contained footwork similar to modern shuffling.

"_Masquerade! Burning glances, turning heads,_

_Masquerade! Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you_!"

As if they had been choreographed, the guests walked slowly down the stairs in graceful pairs, Leonardo on the left with Kayla and Avère on the right with a silver-draped Gaelle. The music slowed and almost stopped, replaced with chiming staccato notes.

"_Masquerade! Seething shadows breathing lies,_

_Masquerade! You can fool any friend who ever knew you!_

_Masquerade! Leering satyrs, peering eyes,_

_Masquerade! Run and hide, but a face will still pursue you._"

Carlotta and Piangi, feathered shimmering turbans drawing attention to their exotic metallic costumes, strolled arm and arm down to the landing, followed closely by Madame Giry and her daughter. Kayla had to bite her tongue to resist the urge to shout at the sixteen year old that that the level of her neckline was not the best option in the present company.

"_What a night!_" Carlotta crowed.

"_What a crowd!_" Firmin exclaimed, moving down onto the landing from the opposite staircase. The opera stars and the managers held their masks off their faces.

"_Makes you glad_…" Andre warbled

"_Makes you proud! __All the crème, de la crème…"_

"_Watching us._.." Madame Giry sang ominously.

"_Watching them_…"

"_All our fears are in the past!_" Meg's sweet voice overlapped.

"_Three months…"_

"_Of relief_!" Piangi boomed.

"_Of delight_!" the dive agreed.

"_Of Elysian peace!_"

"_And we can breathe at last,_" Firmin sighed.

"_No more notes_…"

"_No more ghost_..."

Madame Giry nodded at Kayla as she continued the musical speech. "_Here's a health…"_

"_Here's a toast, to a prosperous year!_" Andre cried.

"_To our friends who are here…_"

"_And may da splendor never fade_!" Carlotta raised her mask into the air like a salute.

"_What a blessed release_!"

"_And what a masquerade!_" Madame Giry flourished her delicate fan with the grace only a true ballerina could possess.

Kayla surveyed the crowd as she and Leonardo moved back up to the landing and leaned against the railing, watching the party play out below. She could see Christine and Raoul practically floating into the room.

"_Think of it!_" Christine's voice echoed in Kayla's ear as the distant figure of the young soprano clung tightly to her suitor's arm. "A secret engagement. Look, your future bride. Just think of it."

"But, why a secret? What have we to hide? You promised me…"

"No, Raoul, please don't let them see…"

"Well, let them see. It's an engagement, not a crime. _Christine, what are you afraid of?_"

"_Let's not argue_…"

"_Let's not argue…"_

"_Please pretend…"_

"_I can only hope_…"

"_You will understand in time_!"

"_I'll understand in time!_"

Kayla's attention was drawn away from the couple by a hand on her bare shoulder. "Dance with me, Abbots!" Leonardo entreated, taking up her hand and spinning her through the throngs on the landing. She laughed, watching the world spinning around her, anchored to the grip of Leonardo's hand around hers and the sight of the bicoloured mask and laughing brown eyes. She was surrounded by a nebulae of blue, silver, and gold. Swatting at Leonardo as he slowed to a stop, she dizzily noted the two fans he was handing to her.

"What's this, then?"

The dancer only pulled her to the stairs, positioning her into a line of other guests. The music slowed once more. Realization hit Kayla like a runaway train. "I can't dance, Leo!" she snarled in a whisper at the cavalier, whom she could sense was grinning under his mask. The drums pounded to a crescendo.

"_Masquerade! Paper faces on parade,_

_Masquerade! Hide your face so the world will never find you!_"

Kayla, standing just behind Leonardo, held up the fans and tried to copy him as best as she could. Up, flip, down, flip, clockwork rhythm and simple movements working in her favour for once. She stumbled more than once as Gaelle, the other prima ballerina, helpfully nudged her as the routine's footwork led the group down the steps.

"_Masquerade! Every face a different shade,_

_Masquerade! Look around, there's another mask behind you!"_

_Masquerade! Burning glances, turning heads_

_Masquerade! Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you! _

_Masquerade! Grinning yellows, spinning reds,_

_Masquerade! Take your fill, let the spectacle astound you_..."

Every light in the room suddenly died, bright handles and gas lamps contracting into tiny sparks and casting the room into darkness. Kayla dropped her fans. There was a high pitched scream from the dance floor below, and from in front of her, Leonardo slowly turned around. The dancer threw one of his fans aside and grabbed her hand. Avère was suddenly standing on her other side, also grabbing her hand. Gasps and shrieks filled the room as everyone's gazes landed on the figure standing at the top of the staircase.

"_Why so silent, good Messieurs?"_

Kayla could hear the sharp percussion and ominous violins and flute playing in her ears as the Red Death strode with predatory calmness down the stairs. "_Did you think that I had left you for good?_" He had taken her advice, Kayla noticed proudly; gold buttons and embroidery on the crimson jacket instead of his traditional black. His cape swished over the marble behind him, trailing his steps like a fountain of blood. Mere glints of emerald were visible in the gloomy sockets of the ivory skull. His hair looked black as pitch in the dim light.

"_Have you missed me, good Messieurs? I have written you an opera! Here, I bring the finished score: Don Juan Triumphant!_" Bone white pages covered in spidery script slid out of the black portfolio as he threw his masterpiece to the floor at the managers' feet. Steel screeched as he drew his sword. "_Fondest greetings to you all. A few instructions just before rehearsal starts…Carlotta must be taught to act, not her normal trick of strutting round the stage._" He paced forward menacingly and flicked the feathers in Carlotta's hair with the tip of his sword. The diva spluttered in wordless indignation. Piangi leapt in front of her, and was rewarded by the foil prodded at his stomach. "O_ur Don Juan must lose some weight. It's not healthy in a man of Piangi's age._" Lowering the weapon, the lethal, slender metal swung carelessly through the air as he approached a cowering Firmin and Andre. "_And my managers must learn that their place is in an _office_, _not_ the arts._" The blade shone in the candlelight as it waved in front of the managers' faces, both of whom looked like they were about to go into cardiac arrest. The face of bone tuned slowly, looking down to where Kayla was flanked by the two cavaliers a few steps below. "_I bring the staging book as well, all of my designs are in their proper place._" He withdrew a bound set book from an indiscernible location like pulling a rabbit out of a hat. It was bound in black, the title emblazoned in curling gold. Kayla's eyes widened at the idea that her art was in such a professional looking book.

He tossed it.

Kayla shrieked in horror and leapt, catching the volume at the last minute. The book was saved as Kayla hit the marble with a painful thunk. Avère and Leonardo bounded forward and dragged her back to her feet and away from the Phantom. Red Death grinned grimly, practically laughing as he sang once more. "_My little manager shall do well, I trust my instructions will be obeyed._" Kayla gave a tiny nod, swaying as pain crept up the side on which she had landed.

"_As for our star, Miss Christine Daäe_..."

Every eye in the room went straight to the young soprano, standing alone in the middle of the ballroom. Raoul was nowhere in sight.

"_No doubt she'll do her best, it's true, her voice is good. She knows, though should she wish to excel, she has much still to learn, if pride will let her return to me, her teacher, her teacher._.."

The room was silent except for the soft melody of a violin. It seemed that everyone was holding their breaths in anticipation – or in fear. Christine, staring in dumbstruck awe at her former teacher, slowly approached the stairs as the Phantom descended them. One step, and another, and another, until they were mere inches apart. Kayla glowered at the adoration she could still see in the Phantom's eyes. There was the tapping of boots from the level above, and Kayla turned her head slightly and glared at the Vicomte, who was attempting to be stealthy as he sneaked down the open hall and to the stairs above the Phantom.

There was a collective gasp of fear as there was a loud metallic snap. Kayla whipped back around just in time to see the Phantom brandishing the chain and engagement ring in Christine's face. "_Your chains are still mine,_ you belong to me!" With feline agility, he leapt back up the stairs, and posed dramatically in the centre of the landing, snarling at the guests of the masquerade. With a billow of thick smoke, the Phantom disappeared with a swoosh of his cape. Raoul dove after him, drawing his sword as he did so. Tugging away from Avère and Leonardo, Kayla shoved the set book into Leonardo's hands, kicked off her shoes and, after a millisecond of hesitation, she too bolted up the steps and jumped into the hole.

* * *

**Author's Note: Here you are, the Masquerade, as promised. It's really late, so I'm going to bed, but thank you all so much for the reviews and the follows and favourites, and if you recently did any of the former and I have not responded, I will, I promise! Review and let me know what you think!**

**Thank you! Love you all!**

**Hugs, **

**Tierney **

**readpaintwrite**


	40. Chapter 40

**Author's Note: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

40

She landed just as the top of the trap creaked shut. Moving to stand closer to the wall, Kayla silently praised her guardian angel for the foresight to abandon her high heels; being barefoot was a much better alternative to broken ankles. Raoul stood in the centre of the room, looking around with wild blue eyes. "Raoul! It's okay, calm down," Kayla hissed. The Vicomte did not seem to hear.

The room was made entirely of mirrors, spinning in an endless, silent dance as they shone pieces of reflective light throughout the chamber. Suddenly, a white skull appeared out of the gloom. Raoul whipped out his rapier and swung it at the sceptre, but he hit nothing. The face appeared to the left and the nobleman struck at it again. The Phantom was playing with Raoul, waiting for him to make a mistake. "Raoul quit it!" Kayla snarled quietly as a coarse rope noose dropped down from the ceiling between the young man and the young woman. Turning to face the ghost again, Raoul swiped his sword haphazardly in the direction of the noose. Raising her arm to try to calm the oblivious nobleman, Kayla took a step forward. As if in slow motion, a flash of white in her peripheral vision informed her that the Phantom's reflection had appeared behind her.

Raoul lunged at the newest distraction, sword outstretched. The metal blade sang as it flew, and the sharp tip cleanly ripped through Kayla's embroidered bodice, slicing the skin under her ribs in one quick stroke. All the breath left Kayla's lungs as she stumbled back and crumpled against the wall. There was a click and a sudden glow of pale light, and Raoul was pulled through the wall perpendicular to Kayla by a pale arm clothed in sparkling black lace_. Madame Giry_, Kayla recognized blearily. The door shut once more, and everything went black.

The pain from her sliced open abdomen was blinding, flashing in bursts of red and orange behind her eyelids. She clamped her arm as tightly as she could over the wound in a doomed attempt to apply pressure. Warm liquid flowed freely over her silk sleeve and down the taffeta skirt of her dress. Kayla swore quietly. She had a feeling that neither Raoul nor the Phantom had realized she was there, both too focused on the other to pay attention to anything – or anyone – else. Kayla tallied up the possibly fatal accidents that she had subjected herself to. She was stuck in the Phantom's infamous torture chamber, no one knew where she was, she had no idea how to get out, and to cap it all off, she was bleeding out all over the reflective floor. "Damn you, Raoul," she cursed, holding back another cry with clenched teeth as she discovered that it was becoming increasingly more painful to breathe. Dying, she concluded, was imminent.

She did not know how long she spent huddled against the wall before she heard the gentle scrape, an addition to the quiet swivels of the moving mirrors. Struggling to open her eyes, Kayla squinted into the gloom and noticed a tall figure looming out of the darkness on the opposite side of the chamber. White porcelain shone dimly in the flickering light of a torch.

"Sorry," Kayla squeaked, gritting her teeth and scooting into a seated position, half frightened and half embarrassed by the presence of the shadowed menace. "I apologize for all the blood; I swear I'll clean it up…"

The ghost stepped forward. The cut throbbed, and, too overwhelmed by the whole situation to stay awake any longer, Kayla – much to her own dismay – fainted.

* * *

After removing his masquerade costume and returning to his normal attire, the Phantom stalked back through his secret passages, listening to the fearful whispers that permeated ever corner of the opera house. He somewhat regretted not being able to kill the fop, as the young fool deserved to suffer for trying to follow him, but at least said fool was truly aware of the Opera Ghost's existence and power.

He chanced upon Christine and little Meg Giry outside of the dancers' dorm, where they were engaged in a furious whispering match with two of the set crew members, Jamie Blanchard and Clemens Dubois. "What do you mean you haven't seen her?" Clemens snarled angrily. "She went to the Masque with _you_! For heaven's sakes, we weren't even invited! I'm pretty sure it would have been safe to assume she'd be with _you!_"

"Leonardo and Avère are still searching for her, they won't tell us anything," Jamie interjected.

"I'll have you know that she got ready at La Carlotta's residence, and arrived with the diva and Piangi. I haven't seen her since… the opera ghost arrived," Meg hissed, lowering her voice as she referred to the Phantom. "I thought that she left and went to find you."

"I barely saw her all night," Christine protested. "The last time I saw her was when she was dancing with Leonardo, and that was half an hour before _he_ appeared."

"Perfect! You were too busy with your precious patron to look out for your friends and now we've lost our leader. _Félicitations_, Daäe," Clemens spat. "I hope you're pleased with yourself."

Christine recoiled as if she had been struck. Though still enraged by the young soprano's betrayal and fear, the Phantom could not help but feel a flare of fury rise in his chest at the ire in the young man's tone.

"I literally could not care less about the Vicomte, _where is Kayla_?" Jamie interrupted angrily.

The Opera Ghost was seized by an unexpected wave of worry. He tried to convince himself that his concern was impersonal; Ms. Abbots currently had possession of the set book, and the final copy was allegedly only just completed. He could not afford to lose his artist. He had toured the entire opera house in the last fifteen minutes and had not seen Mademoiselle Abbots. There was nowhere else she could possibly be…

…unless she had followed the young fop into the torture chamber.

The Phantom's blood froze in his veins and he rose, sprinting through the hidden passages back to his lair. From there, he slunk through the twisted maze to the room of mirrors. Sliding open a hidden door, the Phantom took a gentle step into the dark, raising a torch. In the light cast by the reflections of the crimson flames, the Phantom noticed the huddled body in the corner. The flame surged brightly, and the Phantom stared in shock.

The young girl was leaning against the wall, seated on the floor in what appeared to be a pool of her own blood. As the light cascaded across her face, the deep blue eyes flickered open. She made a half-hearted attempt to sit up straight, her jaw clenched in pain. "Sorry," she gasped, holding her blood soaked stomach tightly. "I apologize for all the blood; I swear I'll clean it up…"

And then the girl fainted.

Erik did not allow himself to panic. He quickly disposed of the torch, sticking it into an empty iron bracket outside the door. Ignoring the red that immediately seeped onto his jacket, the Phantom scooped her up into his arms. A split second's consideration informed him he could not return her to the dormitory in her condition, and as he, surprisingly, had no knowledge of the location of Madame Giry, he decided there was no choice but to take her back to his lair. He quickly exited the torture chamber, and walked back through the shadows to his home, Mademoiselle Abbots cradled gently in his arms.

The Phantom whisked a protective sheet over his own bed before laying the girl down. Racing through the rooms of his house, he returned to his charge laden with bandages and other medical supplies. Setting his load down on the bedside table, he stared at the young woman blankly, unsure of his next step. Kayla Abbots was still in her costume, the dress he had designed torn and bloodied, the black mask still pristinely covering her pale face. Her streaked blonde hair was hanging around her face in long tendrils, mussed from her jump and subsequent attack. The top hat she had added was askew. Blood still seeped out of her white and black bodice. There was nothing for it; he would have to remove the dress before proceeding.

He peeled the mask off her face and set it aside before flipping her over onto her stomach. The girl made a distressed noise, but was otherwise unresponsive. He began to untie the laces, loosening the ties with fumbling fingers. After a moment, he snatched up a knife from the pile and deftly cut through the back of the dress, peeling it off her hurriedly. The same approach was taken with the laces of the corset she wore underneath. He tore the ruined silk bodice and taffeta skirt away and tossed it to the side. Averting his eyes to attempt to save her decency, the Phantom gingerly rolled onto her back.

Beneath the corset, Ms. Abbots was wearing the strangest shirt he had ever seen, a tight, grey, low cut undershirt, with no sleeves at all. Nothing was showing, but around the waist and ribs the grey was stained with burgundy. She also had on incredibly tight black leggings that only reached her knees, leaving her tanned, toned calves and feet uncovered. Gritting his teeth and silently apologizing to the unconscious girl, Erik took up a pair of scissors and quickly sliced away the fabric covering her lower ribcage and stomach. What he saw made him hiss angrily.

A scarlet line ran smoothly from the left side of her waist to her right, perfectly curved over the contours of her stomach. It was not too deep, but deep enough to require stiches. Blood trickled steadily out of the wound. It was obviously the work of a rapier. She must have followed him and the fop into the trap, and been caught in the fight. The fool's sword may have been thin and girlishly delicate, but it was still capable of a substantial amount of damage. Swiping up a clean cloth, the Phantom began to dab gently at the crimson splotches around the cut, steadily removing the blood from the rest of her abdomen. As he did so, blood began to seep more heavily from the gash. Hoping that his medical expertise would not fail him now, he quickly cleaned the inside of the wound. His patient moaned raggedly, but remained still and comatose. Erik sighed heavily and picked up a sterilized needle. "I am sorry," he whispered, and began to stitch up the wound.

Once the gash was closed, held by tight, neat stiches of medical thread, Erik began to wrap clean, white bandages around Ms. Abbot's torso, from the middle of her ribcage down to the lower section of her stomach. He could not help but notice thin, rosy white lines crossing back and forth over her skin, parallel to the rapier stiches, as well as up her hipbones and her sides. He secured the bandage and stepped back. He had done all that he could.

Gently laying a thin blanket over her exposed torso, Erik dragged over an armchair and sat down, willing to wait as long as it took for his little magician to wake up.

* * *

**Author's Note: ... Do you guys hate me yet? **

**I'm very sorry for the short chapter, but school just went nuts, and you remember that Spanish exam? Yeah, I failed. Well, I got a 50. So I kind of passed by not really. My prof tried to excuse it by saying that a couple people got 90's, while 99.9% of the class muttered to each other that they 100% DID NOTget a 90. I literally cannot stand her. And I have a presentation tomorrow for the same class and she's going to fail me, if only because she hates me and the feeling is mutual. **

**But anyway. Enough ranting. Thank you to all who favourited, followed, and/or reviewed last chapter, and thanks to E-man-dy-S, Guest, and shadow2 for their guest reviews. I'll try to write and post a longer chapter soon, so thank you for your patience. **

**Love you all! Hugs!**

**Tierney **

**readpaintwrite**


	41. Chapter 41

**Author's Note: *peers out from around a corner* hi? **

**Ima do this at the beginning for once, because I feel like explanations are in order...**

**1\. I do not own Phantom of the Opera. **

**2\. I am so sorry guys, I am a terrible person for keeping you all waiting this long. This chapter isn't as long as you wonderful people deserve for all your patience, but I am going to work my ass off and get the next one up sooner and I promise it will be longer. School kind of kicked my ass, and I've been recuperating from exams. Also I'm in Vancouver for the U2 concert and I've only got my iPad... But enough excuses, please accept my humble apologies. **

**3\. Thanks to Guest and Guest for their reviews, Sidhlair for the favourite and review, and ssecnirpeap for the follow because I can't PM them in thanks. **

**4\. I apologize again. In the meantime I hope you enjoy a brief interlude of Kayla and Erik sassiness before we dive into Don Juan! **

* * *

41

The first thing Kayla was aware of was the fact that she was bloody freezing.

She appeared to be covered up with a blanket, if the slightly warmer pressure on her body was any indication, but whatever type of fabric it was, it was not very affective at doing its job. In fact, it was very nearly useless. Cold air brushed with vicious finality over her face and bare shoulders. Hold up, bare face. Her hands shot up, feeling the bare skin of her face with confused fingertips. No mask. There was, however, a shot of burning pain across her abdomen. Kayla hissed.

There was a rustling of fabric, and the thump of boots on stone. She could sense a presence hovering off to the side. Lowering her hands gingerly, she ran her fingers over the surface of whatever it was she was lying on. Coarse, medium thickness, probably some sort of rough cotton… crawling her fingers out further, she patted at the soft material. Squishy. A bed then. She stroked the cloth experimentally. It was sleek, luxurious, almost like…

"I swear to Gabriel, Lucifer, and the Four Horsemen if that's red velvet I am going to slap a bitch."

A deep chuckle emerged from the darkness. Kayla tried to move her head to face it, but her body did not seem willing to respond to that particular request. Besides, her eyelids were glued shut. So it was pointless anyway. The mattress dipped by her feet as someone sat down. "It is simply the coverlet, from pieces of old curtains from the stage."

"Which means it _is_ red velvet. Mercy, have you no taste?"

"I have plenty of taste, enough for both of us it would seem."

"Let me be perfectly clear, Phantom, red velvet in bedrooms isn't exactly appropriate. Especially since you've got me in here."

"I do not understand what you are implying."

"Of course you don't my sweet innocent baby."

"There are red velvet covers in the swan bed, I do not understand why it would not be respectable. Nor why you are calling me a baby. I am much older than you."

"Enough with the red velvet in the bedrooms Erik, honestly. This is why you're a sex symbol in my time."

Erik choked.

Kayla laughed. She made another attempt at opening her eyes as she listened to Erik's embarrassed wheezing. "It's no good. Can't open my eyes, can't see a bloody thing."

"How are you feeling? Can you move at all?"

"My arms if I'm moving slowly, my fingers by extension I guess." Frowning, she sent a hesitant command down to her feet. Her toes wiggled agreeably. "I can move my toes."

There was another chuckle from somewhere around her knees. "There was no damage to your back or spine, assumedly you should be able to move. I would guess exhaustion is the only real cause of your lack of movement." There was a gentle prodding of leather against the bare joint.

"So that stupid asshat didn't slice my spinal cord? Excellent. How 'bout my stomach? Or my uterus, for that matter? Am I not going to be able to have kids now?"

Erik started violently coughing.

Kayla could not have stopped laughing even if she tried. The stripe across her stomach throbbed with the shaking of her ribs.

"Enough, mademoiselle, enough! You will tear the stiches!"

"Oh… my…. Goodness… I… can't… you're so cute…. Why…"

The voice moved closer and there were hands on her shoulders. "Settle down, Mademoiselle Abbots, I do not wish to stich up your stomach again."

"But… you're… hahahaha…. You're a grown man and you can't… you can't hear anything about… hahahaha… you can't even handle the word uterus…"

Erik cleared his throat awkwardly and Kayla started laughing even harder. The pressure on her shoulders increased dramatically. "If you do not stay still I will be forced to tie you down, mademoiselle. Trust me when I say you do not want to be awake if I am required to stich you up again."

"Oh ho! You're gonna tie me down are ya? Red velvet and tying down chicks, oh my gosh, and Samantha thinks you're so innocent….."

The hands moved to her face, lightly shaking her head side to side. "Mademoiselle, I need you to breathe. With me. In, out. In, out."

His voice was surprisingly calm, the lilt in his voice echoing a musical rhythm. His pattern matched the timing of the Anxiety Master Post she kept on her phone. It hurt to breathe, but she followed the repetitive pattern regardless.

"Very good, now, if you do not object, I will be checking your stiches." The blanket slid off her body in a series of gentle tugs. Cold air hit her exposed skin, and Kayla let out a high pitched whine. Erik stopped short. "Is there another injury? Did I hurt you?"

"Nooooo, it's coooold…."

"It will only be cold for a moment, I will be as quick as I can."

Fabric slithered over her skin, hitting her bare torso well before she expected. Apparently her grey camisole had inadvertently become a bando. "Where's my shirt?"

"I was forced to cut it away from the wound. I apologize. I will do my best to replace it."

"Nah, it's fine, but really? You cut off my shirt? And dude, where's my dress?"

"It was damaged beyond repair, from the blood and from the sword. I had to cut it off you as well."

"Aw. I really liked that dress. It was beautiful, by the way. Don't know if I actually said thank you."

"It suited you. Seeing you wear it was thanks enough."

"Ow! Ow, why'd you do that?"

"I am merely checking on the state of the stiches. None of them are torn, thankfully. But you will need to be careful once you feel well enough to move around."

Kayla stuck out her lip. Erik snickered. They settled into silence as Erik poked and prodded at her stomach.

"Now, would you care to explain the rest of these?" The gloved finger hovered over her side.

Kayla's eyes snapped open. Immediately, torchlight hit her dead in the eye. She hissed like an enraged cat, hands flying up to shield her eyes. Erik growled warningly. "Seriously, bro? You cut off a girl's dress then examine her stomach? Do you have any sense of decorum at all?"

"I am merely attempting to determine that there are no more injuries. Your stomach is damaged enough as it is, I would like to be sure that it is not damaged further. Or internally."

Kayla blinked furiously, eyes slowly adjusting to the contrast of gloom and flickering bright torchlight. As soon as she could see relatively clearly, she tilted her head up and glared up at the figure looming over her waist. "Well I'm not damaged."

"The fop's rapier would respectfully disagree."

Kayla snorted. Dropping back down onto the table, her head hit the wood with a loud thunk. Erik hissed agitatedly, hands flying up to hover over her skull. "Are you really so interested? Really? Ever thought that maybe… I have a cat?"

"Not thin enough nor scarred over enough to be from a cat. I saw my fair share of feline inflicted injuries while I was in Persia."

Kayla nearly wrenched her neck with the speed she brought her head up again. "Oh my hell, so you _were_ in Persia! Oh my gosh, didn't think about movie and book combining like that, oh my goodness, when, when, when…"

"You are avoiding my question, mademoiselle."

"Well you're avoiding mine."

"I asked first."

"Well _I_ asked second."

"I'm your elder and you are my guest, therefore you are under my authority."

Kayla swatted at his black clad arm, grimacing slightly with the effort. "You're an asshole, Erik."

"Language, little child."

"Do you have any sense of privacy? Like at all? I thought you would have, what with the mask and the cape and the supervillain underground lair."

Erik tilted his head to the side and stared at her. If she hadn't known better she would have said his green eyes were almost curious.

"You're not gonna let me do anything else until I tell you, are you?"

"No I am not."

Kayla huffed. Erik snickered.

"I hope you know what you're getting into on this one," Kayla sighed.

"Take your time."


	42. Chapter 42

**Author's Note: **

**1\. I do not own Phantom of the Opera.**

**2\. This chapter was late AGAIN and I am so sorry.**

**3\. Potential trigger warning: there's a self-harm discussion in this chapter. The line break at almost the end of the chapter is where it ends. I really, really, REALLY don't want to upset any of you, and it's not graphic, but I just wanted to give everyone fair warning. And I swear I'll make the next chapter happier.**

* * *

42

Erik watched Mademoiselle Abbots silently, crossing his arms over his chest. The girl let her head drop back to the table with a thunk once more. "Really, I am going to have to insist you cease in your attempt to give yourself a head injury."

"Shame. I was going for a spinal."

"Really, mademoiselle. You have sustained enough injuries thanks to the fop."

"Can I get a amen…?"

Erik stayed quiet, eyes flickering back and forth over her bare stomach. Pulling out bandages, he slid them under her back. Mademoiselle Abbots let out an annoyed squeak. "You can tell me while I change the bandages."

Her neck twitched like she was going to thump her head again. Erik growled.

There was a long moment of silence.

"It was grade 10. I was fifteen. I don't know what the education system's like here, but there… ya know, it's a transition period."

Her voice was hesitant, quiet. Erik wanted to ask for the definition of "grade ten" but decided not to interrupt, looping strips of cloth over the stitched up wound. "How old was Sam… nine? Anyway, she was in… elementary, I guess, getting bullied at school, little girls being pricks, the whole nine yards. I was doing… okay, I guess. I was on two different volleyball teams, I was doing well, coaches thought I'd make national in a couple years, probably varsity."

For a moment, the only noise in the lair was the girl's breathing. Erik tugged at the bandages and started weaving them together to secure them. "I guess things got worse the next year? I had rivals on the teams, girls who were better than me and didn't want to be replaced, girls who were worse than me and who were jealous. I suppose it was kind of a standard thing, heaven knows I got jealous enough. My marks in school were always good, I could balance volleyball and studying pretty well. But I had trouble focusing, trouble sleeping, started losing interest in things. My parents only noticed when my grades started to drop a bit. They weren't pleased."

"Did they…" Erik gestured at her bandaged abdomen.

"Hurt me? Hell no. My parents are awesome. They were just… disappointed. Angry, I guess, since they thought I just wasn't putting in the effort. They wanted what was best for me, and they loved me, but it was… it wasn't exactly what I needed, I suppose. They tried to motivate me, up the pressure, give me incentives. But Sam… Sam was doing much worse than I was. She was going through some mental stuff, anxiety, suspected OCD – obsessive compulsive disorder, if you're wondering, hell, I keep forgetting you have no idea what this stuff is – and of course the bullies. So most of the attention was with her, for therapy, and talking, whatever she needed. She was the priority, and I was not."

Mademoiselle Abbots had shut her eyes, brows furrowing as she spoke. Erik finished with the bandages and brought over a chair, sitting down next to his patient. "I don't understand why I need to tell you this, I'm obviously fine."

"I would disagree. Speaking can sometimes be helpful."

"Is that why you talk to yourself sometimes?"

He had not expected the question. "… Yes. I suppose it is."

The young manager grimaced. There was a long pause. "… Because Sam was the priority, and I didn't want to take any attention off her, I hid almost everything I was thinking. I tried to be the good child, the smart child, the responsible child. I tried to be perfect, to make it easier on them, I guess. So I'd just shove everything away, try to not feel it. I'd get so angry that I'd start scratching my arms, often without realizing I was doing it. If I was angry enough, it'd leave marks. Long ones. Occasionally I'd draw blood with just my nails. They didn't notice for a couple months. When they did they thought I'd go further, so they made sure I didn't have anything sharp, no razors, no knives, whatever. Not that I'd keep kitchen knives in my room. Obviously."

"Or swords."

"Or swords. The modern age isn't exactly the right setting for a good duel."

"Apologies for the interruption. Continue."

"… they started checking my arms. Whenever I was visibly angry or upset. They monitored me as often as they could, but with Samantha the way she was, they couldn't watch me all the time. They talked with me occasionally, told me I was free to talk to them, that they were there for me, that hurting myself wasn't a healthy way to deal with it. I'd always agree and deny that I was doing it. And because I didn't want to bother them or worry them or anything, I'd hide any impulses I had. So instead of using my arms, I'd scratch my stomach."

"I used my nails, sewing pins, sharper edges of credit cards, whatever I had that they wouldn't suspect me using. Mostly it was my nails. On the outside I was perfectly normal. I graduated high school with honours, got a 4 on the advanced placement art exam, was still on both volleyball teams, played nationally, got a fair number of scholarships, was accepted into the University of Calgary no problem. Didn't make the U of C volleyball team, though, I wasn't good enough of a player for varsity. I seemed happy, the parents thought I was level. I was the reliable, level-headed one. But my coping mechanism started leaving actual scarring. It carried on into my first year of university. The only reason I wanted to do anything was because I had to, I didn't want to get out of bed, didn't want to leave the house, and never socialized. My parents were always pushing for me to get connected, to hang out with people, join clubs, but I never wanted to. I didn't really care about anything."

She exhaled shakily. Erik reached out tentatively, black gloves hovering over streaky blonde hair. He drew his hand back as soon as he realized his error, and Mademoiselle Abbots did not notice.

"Generally the marks I made went away after a couple of days. That year none of them did. I had to be super careful to not show my stomach, not that it was too difficult. I just had to wear long t-shirts in the summer, no bikinis. I stopped trying to act happy. I just couldn't keep ut up anymore. I didn't feel like I could ask for help, so I self-medicated with what I had. I watched a lot of movies, spent a lot of time on Tumblr. Lots of Netflix." She paused. "It just occurred to me that you have no frame of reference for any of those."

"If we are continue to work together on my opera, there will certainly be time for you to explain those terms in greater detail. Do not concern yourself with my understanding for now."

"Okay then… Well, Mom and Dad would get super angry, tell me things like this wasn't how I was meant to live, that I needed to try harder, that I needed to be connected, that my attitude was a choice. I didn't have a job yet, so there was pressure there too. It always came down to me not trying hard enough. To be honest I was thinking… thinking about ending it." Seemingly forcing her eyes open, she laughed hollowly "This must sound like such a joke to you. It seemed like a joke to me too. I hid it. And every day I had to literally force myself to get out of bed, and every day I had to fight myself., bargain that I'd end it tomorrow, I'd end it tomorrow. I put all my energy into art, into fashion design, into building miniature sets, reading plays. I got more scholarships, did screenwriting courses, woodshop, fashion, art. I poured every bit of me that wanted to live into those courses. I got pretty good at what I did, was an A student. My profs recommended I go into sets and costuming, and one of them, not sure who, gave my resume to Theatre Calgary. The rest, I suppose, is history."

"And your…. Injuries?"

She smiled sadly, holding up her index and middle finger in a V-shape. "Clean two years now. Not like it goes away. There'd be days I wanted to, obviously. I tried to replace it with other things."

"You never told your parents?"

"Hell no. Best not to worry them, I thought. I went to therapy a couple times, lied to Mom and Dad about why. I didn't feel like I could after all that... tell them, that is." Her breathing steadied out, the rhythm deep and even. "It's not a fight you can win in a day. But I had a job, I could work in a variety of plays, I had summer work automatically, I could get shipped off to other theatres when I was needed, I even was able to work with the Alberta Ballet on tours a couple of times, that was fun. And I've got my own place now, so I don't have to lie about it if I actually do need help. I have privacy. It's nice."

"You appear to be in a good state at the moment."

"I have bad days. Everyone does. But yeah, I try to focus on stuff that makes me happy. Try to cope in better ways if I get upset. Try to calm myself down before I get to that point. I've always been fairly outgoing, so I can interact fairly well even if I don't want to. Can portray normality. Fake it till you make it, I guess."

Erik frowned slightly from beneath his mask.

Fixing her blue eyes on his green ones, Mademoiselle Abbots started to laugh, real, amused peals echoing off the stone walls. "Not everyone's mask is made of porcelain, my friend," she smirked, reaching out a finger to tap the cool white material on the side of his face.

* * *

They sat in silence for a time afterwards.

"I should let you rest, you need to take time to heal," Erik announced, standing up and awkwardly adjusting his vest.

"You didn't need to listen to that. But thanks I guess." Mademoiselle Abbot's voice was slightly hesitant, but there was more of her quirky attitude in her tone now. "You're the first person to have heard that, actually."

"It was my honour, mademoiselle."

"Ya know, after all that, you know you can just call me Kayla, right? Or is this like some sorta Regency era stuff where you can't call chicks by their first name?"

"I believe that Regency is an English term."

"Yep. But the point remains the same. I kinda just bared my soul or whatever. I think we've reached that point."

"Very well… Kayla."

"Thanks, Erik."

With a nod, he left the room.

He had only ever called Christine by her first name once, he realized. On the day he made his first mistake. On the day she had taken off his mask. Without her permission. Meanwhile Mademoiselle – Kayla, rather – had freely given her permission. And she touched his mask. Technically speaking she poked it. But he had not been taken aback by the gesture. It was strange. He did not have friends. Even Antoinette was not really a friend, more like a strange surrogate parent. Kayla was different. A good kind of different. Erik walked out of the tunnels and onto the walkway over the lake, boots thumping over the stone as he strode over and sat next to the model of the stage. Having an ally in the opera house above would be useful. Having a friend to collaborate with would be even more so. Even if it would take some getting used to. Glancing up at the piles of her sketches scattered over the top of the organ, he did not bother to hold back his smile.

The young stage manager trusted him now.

Kayla Abbots would prove very useful indeed.

* * *

**Author's Note: So... hopefully that wasn't too bad for all of you? This is something I struggled with myself and something I kind of had in mind for Kayla for a while. And let it be known I'm not saying this is a good habit, it's not, but it exists, and if any of you have problems with this, I'm always here to talk. *hugs***

**I'd like to thank E-man-dy-S for the guest review and Young Cosette for the review (I'd have thanked you by PM but yours is disabled. Apologies). **

**Oh, and leotheturtle on Tumblr asked if I had a picture of Kayla's dress from the Masquerade. I do have a couple sketches, even though I changed up the colour a bit when I wrote the chapter. Is that something people would be interested in seeing? If so, I'll post it on Tumblr or something like that. **

**This one was later than I had promised everyone, and I apologize. My body's a little messed up and I've been having a lot of doctor's appointments and bloodwork and such. It's not fun. Nevertheless ****I promise I will work hard on this next chapter and it will be fluffy with the stage crew and Erik and rainbows and butterflies and _mAYBE I'LL ACTUALLY GET IT POSTED ON TIME_. **

**Thank you everyone for your patience, I love you all.**

**Hugs,**

**Tierney **


	43. Chapter 43

**Author's Note:**

**1\. I don't own Phantom of the Opera**

**2\. I'm sorry for burdening you all with an author who just can't _handle her fricking deadlines_**

**3\. I'm going to address one of the primary reasons for my lateness, but I'll do that in the last author's note, because it's going to require a rant.**

* * *

43

Kayla blinked.

Red and orange flickered off the rough stone ceiling, reflecting from the candles scattered around the room. She slowly tilted her head, gazing with quiet curiosity at the rest of the room. A wardrobe so dark it nearly blended into the wall, doors firmly shut. Gleaming armoires and dark tables, covered with tiered candles dripping cream wax. She could not see any other visible objects, save for a coil of black silk ribbon. There were no mirrors, at least none that she could see. Perhaps there was one in the inner door of the wardrobe, as she could not see a man as put together as the Opera Ghost not taking care with his appearance. The only conclusion she could draw was that she was in Erik's room. The owner in question was nowhere in view.

She side-eyed the bed she was lying on top of. Yep. Red velvet. Shaking her head in resigned disbelief, she very, very carefully sat up.

A few minutes of struggle resulted in a very groggy Kayla Abbots shuffling out of the Phantom of the Opera's bedroom with a velvet coverlet wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. She had tied a second blanket under her arms like a dress, due to the fact that she was only wearing a bra and black shorts, having felt obligated to forgo the bloodstained camisole.

Treading lightly down a dark and twisted hallway, she followed the torchlight and watery shimmers to the lake. Pausing on the landing, she stared at the Opera Ghost's dark form leaning over the organ. Unmoving and silent, he merely stared at the ivory keys. Poor baby, he doesn't know what to do with himself without his opera, she thought sympathetically. She hopped childishly down the steps, padding closer to her unaware host. A glint of white alerted her to the fact that the porcelain mask was resting on the edge of the organ. Kayla turned and shuffled backwards, one hand stretched out behind her. She caught the mask in her fingertips and swiveled her hand out to hold it out to Erik. "Hey. Here you go. I honestly don't care if you wear it but I didn't really want to take a chance on getting thrown into the lake."

She heard Erik start slightly, followed by the shifting of fabric as he pulled the mask gingerly from her grip. "Merci, mademoiselle."

"Let's be perfectly clear, I don't give two shits if you wear that thing or not. I know what I'm getting into in that department, and I'm not going to scream or faint or anything. Whenever you wanna ditch that thing, go ahead."

Erik snorted. "I will spare you looking at a monster."

"Bro, I watch _Supernatural_. However horrifying you may _think_ you are is kittens compared to some of that."

"… Supernatural?"

"Oh. Right. Remember that little moving picture I showed you on my phone – the little black rectangle? Supernatural is a TV show, which means I watch two guys killing monsters and driving a… m'kay, let's forgo the Impala for a moment… Let's try again: I watch two guys hunting monsters and other supernatural entities on a bigger version of that black rectangle. I watch other shows too. It's kind of like theatre, except I'm basically watching moving photos."

Erik's brow furrowed, and his head tilted back, studying the ceiling as he tried to process her subpar explanation. Kayla laughed. "I did a terrible job explaining that, sorry. The point was I look at monsters in my free time, and you definitely aren't one."

"I appreciate the sentiment."

"Damn right you appreciate the sentiment. It's straight up fact."

Erik sighed and shook his head. "I see no purpose in arguing with you over differing opinions."

"No. I think we're both pretty evenly matched in the stubbornness department. Scootch over." She prodded at his muscled shoulder with her index finger until he confusedly moved over on the bench. Immediately she plopped down next to him. They sat in silence for a moment. "What time is it? Or what day, for that matter?"

"I do not tend to concern myself with time during rehearsal periods," Erik replied nonchalantly. "But it is the 3rd of January."

"What?! How long was I out?"

"You slept for almost a day after I dealt with your stiches, and almost another after our talk. It must have been from all your excitement."

"That's one word for it. I'm more excited about kicking the precious Vicomte in the balls when I get back upstairs. Has my crew been notified where I am?"

"I did leave a note for Monsieur Blanchard. Whether or not he shared it with the others I do not know."

"Crap. I'm not fired, am I?"

"No. The managers know you are needed."

"Cool. I should probably go back upstairs, shouldn't I? My crew's probably freaking out, and I think Avère still has the set book, and they kind of need me for… everything, basically. Sets and costumes and blocking… dammit, Erik, did you maybe think this through before putting me in charge of the entire freaking opera?"

"I trust your judgement. And you need not concern yourself with the music."

"Ha."

"Come, you should return…"

"…Your managers of the theatre will be missing me?"

"I was going to say that I will walk you to your dormitory. And I doubt the managers will be missing you, they have the attention span of rats and quite a number of problems to worry about."

"Ugh. Fine, no fanservice for me."

* * *

Erik vetoed her use of the velvet sheets as clothes, though whether or not his concerns lay with her fashion or with the concrete evidence of his existence she could not tell. He did not walk with her so much as carry her back through the narrow passageways, despite her unenthusiastic protests that she could walk on her own.

"I would advise against lifting anything heavy until I or another doctor approve. The cut was not deep enough for muscle damage, but you could tear the stiches or cause more scarring."

"So I can't do catwalk?"

"You may be _on_ the catwalk, but you should not be climbing or dealing with the ropes. You have enough crew members to take your place."

"That feels like cheating."

"I trust you will be busy enough without moving sets. Besides, you should be providing direction most of the time. I doubt there will be another performance until mine."

"Shit, we're actually going to have to build all the sets! I can still paint and do woodworking, can't I?"

"As long as you aren't lifting anything heavy. I will notify you when I am able to remove the stiches."

"Eh, I'll probably visit every day anyway. You can check 'em whenever, I don't care."

Erik turned a corner and strode into the darkness. A pale light appeared at the end of the tunnel. Kayla tugged on his cape. "No, Erik, don't go into the light! You have so much to live for!"

Erik raised his eyebrows at her. "Here we are," he announced, peering through what Kayla now saw was two-way glass before he opened the panel and stepped into the deserted ballet dormitory.

"Oh, you little shit…" Kayla muttered, silently smacking herself for not suspecting it in the first place.

"Did you say something, Kayla?"

"No."

"Good." He maneuvered through the maze of cots to Kayla's bed, setting her down gently. "Rest. And remember my instructions."

"Hey, wait, wait, wait, before you go, did you throw out my masquerade dress?"

"It is covered in blood, Kayla, you will not be able to wear it again. But I have this for you…" He held out a handkerchief sized square of fabric. Kayla grabbed it and examined it. Black tulle, blue silk, embroidery… a piece of every different fabric in her dress had been included. "And we could not forget your mask," he added, holding out the black domino.

"That is the sweetest thing ever, thanks."

Erik nodded patiently. He took her ring of keys from under her pillow and placed the mask and fabric patches in her trunk. "Rest."

* * *

After Erik left, Kayla spent a while staring up at the ceiling before the dormitory door flew open with a bang, and she heard scurrying feet.

"MON DIEU!" Lena's voice screamed. The door banged again and she heard the little girl careening back down the hall. She could hear echoes of shouts and shrieks, and then a thunder of feet on the stairs.

"No, no, no, boys, I'll handle this, Madame Giry will kill all of us if we all went in there, but she might excuse two!" Kayla smirked at the wild concern in Jamie's distant tone. The door slammed against the wall as Jamie, Avère, Meg, and the ballet rats raced into the room.

"Amelia, go find Madame Giry. She will want to alert the managers," Meg ordered faintly, and the tiny red head bolted out of the room like a bat out of hell.

"We thought you were _dead_!" Lena sobbed. Half of the ballet rats started to cry, the others dissolved into shrieks of worry.

"Leonardo, could I get some back-up please?" Avère requested weakly.

The dark haired cavalier swanned into the room and gathered up the little girls, consoling them with promises of a visit later before shepherding them out of the dorm.

Jamie strode forward and scooped Kayla up in his arms, squeezing her tightly. "I swear, if you ever pull a stunt like that again…" Kayla shrieked in pain. He immediately let go. "Oh god, I am so sorry, are you hurt?"

"Argh, sorry Jamie, I'm happy to see you too, I'm sorry, I'm not doing that again… I've got stiches under my ribs because la Vicomte was being a bit too generous with his rapier."

"I'm going to kill him."

"I second that. If this issue is democratic I think we'd have all the cavaliers and crew behind us, come on Jamie, let's go stab some fop…"

"Avère!"

"What?"

"You can't kill de Chagny!"

"He stabbed you!"

"Sliced me, if we're being technical."

"I'm definitely going to kill him."

"Jamie!"

The brown haired stagehand sank next to her on the bed, shaking his head angrily. "We all thought you were dead, Abbots. You've been missing three days."

"How's everyone else?"

"They'll be fine now that they know you're alive. Everything's kind of been in an uproar, we haven't even started preparations for the Phantom's opera…"

"So we're performing it, then?"

"Yes. I read the script, it's going to be incredibly fun to build sets for, but the cast doesn't seem as keen."

"Hey! As a member of the cast, I think it's going to be amazing to dance, what do you think, Giry?"

Meg pursed her lips. "I'm not sure. Maman has not planned any of the choreography…"

"About that…" Kayla interjected shamefacedly. "I don't think she'll be planning it."

Meg nodded. "I suppose the Phantom will be giving all the directions now."

Jamie snickered. "The Unholy Trinity's going to adore that idea, I'm sure..."

"And that would be…?"

"The managers, Raoul, and Carlotta and Piangi. Technically it's a quintet, but trinity sounded better."

Kayla shut her eyes. "How're our sopranos holding up?"

"Christine has not been here much, I think she's been staying with Raoul, and Carlotta has been here every single day to check if you've been found."

Kayla's heart swelled. "Aw. That's cute. Well, Carlotta being worried about me is, not the underage premarital sex that's potentially going on with explanation one."

Meg choked.

"Kidding, Meg. Sorry, keep forgetting you're a lot younger than me…"

Avère cocked his blonde head at her curiously. "You're checking up on all the sectors of the opera house. You sound an awful lot like a manager."

Kayla squinted at the cavalier. "I have this feeling that I kind of am."

"Well, it'll be a damn sight better than Firmin and Andre. Not that they're going to complain about relinquishing some responsibility. I think they're out of their depth. I'd vote for you."

"Thanks, Jamie."

* * *

**Author's Note: Hopefully that was okay? More humor and fluff than last chapter, to be sure, and never fear, I will bring Kayla out into the opera house next chapter and preparations for _Don Juan_ will begin. To all who have followed, reviewed, favourited, E-man-dy-S who guest reviewed, etc, thank you very much. **

**On the note of last chapter...**

**I'm about to rant. Are you ready?**

**Okay... *takes deep breath* Here we go, be warned. **

**Last chapter I received a guest review from "Sorry" that was a potent mix of politeness and disparagement. It was actually really quite hurtful, and that was one of the reasons that I took so long to post this, because it was so scathing that it drained my inspiration for a while. It upset me to the point that I actually ended up just deleting it from reviews page. The reviewer accused me of writing an angst based Mary Sue, and making up "an underlying issue to connect with someone". They then proceeded to say they were "done with this", and that the chapter ended the story for them, etc. Whoever this is, they are perfectly entitled to their own opinion, but instead of having constructive critiques it was basically just an attack. And since it was anonymous, I can't PM this individual and have a mature chat about this, and am instead forced to rant to everyone else. So I apologize for that. **

**Kayla is not a Mary Sue, and if she displays any of those characteristics, please someone tell me, because I never, ever wanted to write anything remotely close to a Mary Sue. She is not angst based, this is a piece of her past that a lot of people struggle with, but it does not define her as a character. Furthermore, it is not a "quality" that exists solely to connect her to Erik; _the emotional turmoil of pressure and failure connects a lot of people to Erik. _Hell, it's one of the reasons I wanted to write this story in the first place, because I felt that connection to the character. The struggle with self-harm doesn't set Kayla apart from anyone else in the world, if anything it was intended to act as a connection point to any readers who are struggling with this issue, because with this big of a community, some of you probably are. And I am here to support you if you are struggling with anything. Lastly, I took a big risk with the last chapter. I made it quite a bit more personal than I had in the past, and I wasn't sure how it would be received. But the idea that one chapter out of 43 that contains serious content is enough to make a person take the time to write a pissy passive-aggressive review is kind of ridiculous. Anyway, to "Sorry" or whoever it is you are: this story isn't going to go to angst just because a character has had struggles in the past. So next time you want to attack me over anon, don't. Sign in and PM me about your concerns if it means that much to you. **

**For everyone else who read that rant, please don't hate me. I apologize for the long tirade, but that freaking review been biting at me for a week and I needed to get it off my chest. **

**Thank you to everyone who has read this far, and I am committed to getting the next chapter out sooner! All of my doctor's appointments and things are done for the moment, all my tests came back normal, but they're sending me to a specialist, so we'll see how that goes. But at least I don't have that distracting me from writing for the time being!**

**Hugs to all of you beautiful people!**

**Tierney **

**readpaintwrite**


	44. Chapter 44

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera**

* * *

44

She spent the remainder of the evening and the entirety of the next morning in bed, dozing and eating whatever the mother-bird-like members of the set crew and cavaliers brought to her. The ballet rats appointed themselves her personal security entourage, relaying messages and instructions to and from the set crew and the cavaliers, bringing her things, and shushing any of the senior dancers who so much as looked in the directions of Kayla's bed. At eleven am on the 4th of January Kayla decided that she had had enough and got out of bed. Meg lent her a dressing gown, and Kayla wandered out into the hallway in nothing but the robe and her nightgown, propriety be damned, with the ballet rats trailing her like uncertain ducklings. As she descended the stairs, she watched the set crew scurrying about the backstage, moving boards, backdrops, and stage pieces into the wings and through the wooden maze to their homes in the darkness. Jamie was standing on the stage, illuminated by the flickering gaslights around the edge, barking orders at his compatriots. "Supreme executive authority suits you, Blanchard," she called, reaching the stage level with a final, childish hop.

Jamie turned, grinning as he watched her approach. "I thought so, though it is nice to have a second opinion."

"You're just packing up all the pieces from _Faust_?"

"And moving them into their long-term storage. Chances are we won't need them for quite some time."

Kayla nodded briskly. "Do you happen to know where Avère put the set book?"

"Oh yeah, you did hand it off, didn't you… Last I saw Leonardo had it and he put it in the office. Speaking of which you are going to have to have a meeting and tell us what happened. You jumped down a hole and disappeared for basically three days."

"Eh, I'm tame in comparison to Alice."

"Your constant literary references confound and amuse me."

"You read _Alice in Wonderland_?"

"I'm a stagehand, I don't live under a rock."

"…Alright then. Okay, I promise I'll explain, but let's just get this chaos sorted first. Where are my keys?"

Once Kayla had found said keys, she hurried over to her office and gingerly unlocked the door. The _Don Juan Triumphant_ set book was sitting innocently on her desk. It was giving off a vibe that was about as smug as Erik. She glared at it. "You had better be worth getting shanked, my friend." Picking it up gingerly, she left the office.

When she returned to the stage, all the backgrounds, backdrops, and other accessories were gone, leaving the stage empty and desolate. The ballet rats had disappeared, having scurried off to class or the dorm or heaven knew where. The set crew was sitting in a circle, the seniors standing behind the juniors. "There you are, lassie!" Claude beamed. "You had us worried for quite some time."

"Thanks, glad to know I would have been missed. Okay, so the managers haven't said anything about the new opera? No? The Vicomte? Awesome, glad to know they're doing their jobs. Ugh. Um… has anyone looked at or touched the set book since I left?"

"No one but Leonardo," Clemens interjected. "He took it pretty seriously. He just carried it around like a baby when we were searching for you, and after a couple hours he stole a skeleton key from Madame Giry and locked it in the office."

"God bless his little heart. But you said you've read the script, Jamie?"

"Yeah. It was in Giry's office. It was mostly just stage directions. Reyer's locked up the score in his office."

"Three heads of departments, three offices, all locked… Looks like we have ourselves la fantôme's points of dependence, eh Abbots?"

"Shut up Dennis. Anyway, I'm'a sit myself down here, and we are going to be the first people to look at this set book. I don't care what the managers are doing, we are going to get on top of this craziness and start building this crap, 'kay?"

"All in favour of staging a coup and taking over the staging of the phantom's opera say aye!"

"Aye!"

Kayla laughed and set the bound volume in the centre of the circle. With a careful hand, she flipped open the cover. _Don Juan Triumphant_ was written on the first page in spindly black ink, with "O.G." scrawled in one corner. "Okay, ready to take a dive into the phantom's head? Let's do this…"

* * *

Another hour found the crew still on the stage, huddled around the book and energetically discussing what needed to be done. Marius and Claude, the most experienced carpenters among the group, were roughly sketching out dimensions and construction methods for the different sets, muttering angrily about the extra time that would be required to build two sets of spiral staircases. Marius, after crumpling up three different diagrams of the troublesome staircases, threw his pencil across the stage and into the orchestra pit – and was being thoroughly mocked by his peers for his frustration – when Kayla heard an ear-splitting shriek.

"ABBOTS!"

The shrill scream was followed closely by a hurricane of purple silk storming up the red velvet aisle.

"Did… did anyone think… to tell Carlotta that I was alive?" The senior set crew shrugged. The juniors avoided eye contact.

The diva stomped between the rows of seats, screeching all the while. "ABBOTS YOU SILLY LITTLE _PUTTANA_! WHERE IN DA NAME OF GOD 'AVE YOU BEEN I 'AVE BEEN WORRIED SICK – "

"Hi, Giudicelli…"

Carlotta ignored the stage manager's greeting and continued to scream. "I LEAVE YOU ALONE FOR TWO MINUTES AND YOU VANISH INTO THIN AIR?! I SWEAR TO GOD I CANNOT TAKE YOU ANYWHERE – "

"Um… is there any way to stop her?"

"No, just let her run her course, lassie, she'll lose steam eventually…"

"WE ALL SPENT DAYS LOOKING FOR YOU AND NOW YOU ARE JUST ON DA STAGE LIKE NOTHING WAS EVER WRONG, THE FOP HIMSELF IS MORE CONCERNED DAN YOU ARE, YOU SILLY CHILD!"

Carlotta rushed up the aisle, her voice echoing through the auditorium as she clacked up the stage stairs and into the hallway. Her shrieks sounded more like Italian than anything else now. Bursting through the wings, she marched onto the stage and toward Kayla. The stagehands scattered. "Sto mai lasciando fuori dalla mia vista di nuovo, giuro su Dio, non ho intenzione di lasciare il vostro soggiorno in questa topaia di un teatro d'opera..."

Kayla forced herself to stay put as the diva rushed at her. She stopped short just inches away, her head tilted slightly to look at the taller manager. Suddenly, the diva threw her arms around her and squeezed. Kayla choked. "It would 'ave been very rude of you to die, I don't have anyone to replace you as a bridesmaid," Carlotta sniffed haughtily, her voice only slightly muffled. Kayla chuckled shallowly.

"Can't breathe, Carlotta," she wheezed. The soprano let go reluctantly.

"Where 'ave you been for three days?!" Carlotta brought up her manicured hands and shook Kayla's shoulders. Kayla winced. The diva released her immediately, and glared at her. "I swear to god, Abbots, if you 'ave gone and 'urt yourself – "

"It wasn't so much me going and hurting myself, it was more like circumstances beyond my control, a bit of Vicomte, a bit of ghost, a lot of swords…" She unconsciously ghosted her fingertips along the bottom of her rib cage, feeling the ridges of bandages beneath her shirt. Carlotta immediately grabbed her waist and began to gently prod. Kayla grimaced.

"Dere are bandages all over you!" Carlotta snarled.

"Yep I'm – _ouch_ – well aware – _ow, dammit_ – of that – _for the love of all things good Carlotta, stop touching!_"

"Who did dis to you?!"

"I told you, circumstances beyond my control, la fantôme, and la Vicomte," Kayla repeated, focusing on her breathing and trying to move slightly out of reach of the diva's concerned fingers.

"De Chagny," Carlotta growled. "He and I are going to be 'aving words, oh yes…"

There was a clattering of shoes across wooden boards as Madame Giry practically sprinted into the wings. "Mademoiselle Abbots!" she gasped, running towards her and grabbing her shoulders concernedly.

"WHY FOR THE LOVE OF SWEET CASTIEL WILL PEOPLE NOT STOP TOUCHING ME?!"

Madame Giry leapt back at Kayla's shriek. Behind her, Kayla could hear the junior set crew stifling laughter. "Are you hurt, Kayla?" the ballet mistress demanded.

"Yes, a hundred times yes," Kayla wheezed, leaning over and clutching her stomach.

"I am so sorry, Kayla. Meg told me you were back, and the managers wish to see you. The Vicomte as well."

"Oh, _goodie_."

"There is no way in _hell_ that Abbots is going anywhere _near_ the fop," Jamie snapped. His brown eyes were blazing. "Not after what he's done."

"Which would be…?" Madame Giry inquired sharply.

"Hahaha, you're all hilarious, but the fact remains I have work to do. I can talk to the managers later, and I am certainly not talking to de Chagny."

"Is there a specific reason for why you are avoiding the patron, Kayla? Is there something you need to tell me?"

"I'm not talking about this. I'm not going to jump about like a freaking puppy just cause the Vicomte whistles for me. I have a set to build – _Dennis, stop laughing, this isn't funny _– and I think you know as well as anyone that this particular opera isn't something we can dick around with – _Marius, you're as bad as Dennis, shut up_ – "

"You have been missing for three days, Kayla, the managers need to speak with you."

Kayla stared up at the catwalk and groaned. "Ugh. Fine. You boys keep working, I want to start getting materials together when I get back."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You mean _sir_."

"Yes, you're right Baptiste, yes sir."

* * *

Kayla followed Madame Giry through the halls, the skirt of her nightgown swishing out behind her, her bare feet sinking slightly into the carpets. Carlotta strode beside her, her beautiful face set in a death glare. The diva looked ready to fight, a sentiment which reflected Kayla's internal mood. Turning a corner, Kayla saw the managers' door. Madame Giry sped up slightly as the door opened and Raoul stepped out. Kayla stopped short.

As he spotted her, his hazel eyes widened. He practically ran forward, gazing at her with a emotion that Kayla could only identify as surprised concern. Just as he got closer to her than Kayla wanted, he stopped and looked her up and down, a small smile curling up the corners of his mouth. _What the hell?_

She took a quick glance down, and remembered that she was still in her nightgown and cardigan, and abruptly realized that her hair was down, blonde locks waving over her shoulders. _Well shit._

"Mademoiselle Abbots, I am relieved to see you safe and sound," Raoul greeted, sounding quite relaxed.

"Not really sound, I'm a bit sliced up, if you get my drift," Kayla said pointedly.

Raoul looked quite confused. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not prepared to pardon you just yet."

Carlotta snorted.

Madame Giry stuck her head out of the managers' office and beckoned. Kayla smiled sarcastically at Raoul. "If you'll excuse me, my _liege_."

The managers rose immediately as Kayla entered. "Mademoiselle! You cannot possibly imagine how pleased we are to see you safe!" Andre exclaimed, leaping forward and wringing her hand.

"Probably not as relieved as I was that _I_ was safe," Kayla replied dryly, taking the chair Firmin offered. Carlotta immediately plopped down into the seat next to her, even though Raoul's cloak was draped over the arm. As Raoul marched into the room, Carlotta turned and grinned passive-aggressively at him. The nobleman glared at the diva before walking to stand by the window.

"I understand you may still be recovering from the shock, but we need to discuss the next season," Firmin began cautiously, sitting down across the desk from the diva and the set manager. "What kind of operas we will be performing, what kind of sets will be needed, and the like."

"I don't see what there is to discuss. My crew and I have already started building the new set."

"And which set is this?" Andre asked politely.

"_Don Juan Triumphant_. We have the building designs pretty much down, and we're going to find materials when we're done here."

"You cannot be serious!" Raoul burst out. "We cannot perform that monster's opera!"

Kayla swiveled around to stare at him. "Sorry, didn't _quite_ catch that, try again?" she hissed.

"Richard, Gilles, you must make her see reason, we cannot perform such a disgrace!"

"Excuse you, have you even seen or heard anything from this guy?"

"I would have, if I was permitted to see the set book, script, and score, as is the right of the patron!"

"Oh, _wow_, let's _just_ be clear, you have no right to meddle in any of the departments, and you aren't going to see any of the books if I have anything to do with it."

Raoul smiled indulgently, though a muscle in his jaw was twitching slightly. "I will forgive your tone, as you are obviously under a great deal of stress at the moment…"

"Mademoiselle Abbots, you must understand, it is a great risk to put on such a show for the public. We could lose a substantial amount of revenue, and judging by the scant details provided to us by Madame Giry and Monsieur Reyer, the costumes and sets alone may cost a fortune."

Kayla bounded to her feet, swiping a hand through her loose hair angrily. "You don't get it! None of you! You assholes are just worried about money and cost and revenue, when it's the goddamn _Phantom's_ Opera, the freaking masquerade took care of your _entire_ advertisement campaign in about eight seconds!" She paced back and forth across the room, the managers, Vicomte, ballet mistress, and diva watching every step. "Even if people don't like it, it's gonna sell tickets. What you don't freaking get is that if we don't perform, how do you think the opera ghost's gonna feel, huh? Think he's going to listen to reason? No! I am building the sets, no matter what you people do. At least _my_ crew isn't going to be strung up from the _rafters_ because we didn't do our jobs." A small part of her mind felt slightly bad for painting Erik as a bloodthirsty spirit, but then she remembered the years the phantom had spent perpetuating rumors exactly like that, and just kept going. She pointed menacingly at Raoul, blue eyes sparking against hazel ones. "You aren't at all concerned about refusing the opera ghost, cause you have exactly zero to lose! I've got seven men and thirteen boys to look out for, and Madame Giry, if you care at all about your dancers, you'll start chorography now."

Madame Giry's impassive face paled. Carlotta made a vaguely approving noise next to her.

Andre sank into another chair. There was a long silence. "We will have to insist on seeing your plans, and overseeing the builds," he said weakly. "And the costumes as well, as the ghost seemed to be of the opinion that you would be taking over that department…"

Kayla smiled grimly. "No can do, gentlemen, your _place is in an office, not the arts_."

Raoul stiffened. "Now wait just a moment –"

Carlotta slammed her hand on the arm of the chair. The managers jumped at the loud noise. "You all know dat I 'ave da least respect for authority out of anyone 'ere, but Kayla is right. Dis opera ghost is not to be trifled with. I suggest if you want to end dis season alive, dat you side with da one person whom 'e 'as not threatened yet."

"Richard, Gilles, I insist, as patron –"

Kayla lost it. "HAVE YOU LITERALLY HEARD A SINGLE THING I'VE SAID?" she screamed. "People are going to die, you won't be the patron of anything if we don't go through with this! And let me remind you of the master plan: Carlotta needs to work on her acting, Piangi needs to get fit, the managers need to get their noses out of the operas, and Christine has to lead. You are not even a piece of the puzzle. You don't get a say."

Raoul's eyes darkened dangerously. "I am patron, and Vicomte, mademoiselle. It would be unwise to cross me."

"Ah, yes. Unfortunately I know what happens to people who cross you. Would you like to see?' Ripping off her cardigan, she tossed it at Carlotta, who caught it clumsily. Yanking impatiently at the tiny buttons down the front of her nightgown, she ripped it open, thanking her own sense of preparedness that she was wearing a sports bra. Letting the bodice of the gown hang around her waist, she furiously tore off the white bandages and let them drop to the floor. All eyes in the room went straight to the bright red line stitched with black that crossed over her stomach. Andre turned bone white. Firmin fainted. Madame Giry took in a sharp breath. Carlotta swore. Raoul's stare traced the line, covering each plane of her stomach on the way. _Good to know that you've probably completely missed the point_, Kayla thought sourly. She leant over, picked up the bandages, and shrugged the sleeves of the night gown back over her shoulders. Fingers deftly doing up the buttons, she raised her chin at Raoul. "Threaten me all you want. I've seen worse," she declared archly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go do the job that I've been commissioned for." Unable to resist the urge to toss her hair over her shoulder as she turned, she strode out of the room. She heard Madame Giry and Carlotta follow her.

Walking as fast as she could down the corridor, she relaxed slightly once she heard the office door click shut. "Abbots!" Carlotta called, aghast, heels clicking on the ground as she ran after Kayla. Kayla shut her eyes and leaned against the wall. "You're bleeding, Abbots."

Kayla glanced down to where drops of red were blossoming through the white fabric. "Eh. Maybe I've torn the stiches. Maybe I've got too high a heart rate. Who cares."

"That was inappropriate, Kayla," Madame Giry said severely, grabbing the bandages out of her hands, slipping off the top of the night gown, and wrapping the strips over her stomach with all the practiced patience of a mother. "Understandable, but inappropriate all the same."

"Especially since they're my bosses, and de Chagny's engaged? Agreed. Not like it mattered to the precious patron though."

"You need a doctor," Carlotta squeaked, looking absolutely horrified.

"Probably."

Madame Giry huffed. "And it will be a very specific doctor who is not going to be very pleased with being disturbed."

"Ah, yes. D'ya know what, maybe we just won't tell him about this…?"

"No, Kayla, come with me, he will want to know."

"Can I at least tell my crew first?"

And _that's_ how Kayla came to be standing on stage in front of her crew, explaining to them why there was blood all over the ribs of her nightgown and why they would have to work without her for a bit, while a certain six of the juniors stared at her in disbelieving horror that the Vicomte had seen their beloved Abbots' stomach before they had.

* * *

**Author's Note: I know, I got this chapter out so late, I'm sorry, I suck. I had work and a crazy-ass amount of doctors appointments and specialist appointments and procedures and just... ugh. And then I finally got finished this today, and then THE INTERNET DIED. I know it's not really an excuse, but... yeah. Moving on. **

**Thanks to all of y'all who have favourited, reviewed, followed, read, etc. Thanks to Guest and Allie (thanks btw, that was an encouraging one) for their reviews as well. **

**For anyone who was wondering, Carlotta's little spiel in Italian translates to "I am never letting you out of my sight again, I swear to god, I'm not going to let you stay in this rat hole of an opera house..." **

**Anyway, thank you all for reading, and I have given up on trying to predict how long chapters are going to take, but I do promise that I will get one written and posted as quickly as I am able. **

**Hugs for you all!**

**Tierney**

**readpaintwrite**


	45. Chapter 45

**Author's Note: If it was not already apparent, I do not own Phantom of the Opera. Wow, it's been too long. Sorry guys. **

* * *

45

After Kayla had made her apologies to the crew, Madame Giry took her to the abandoned Prima Donna room, which everyone, even Carlotta, had avoided like the plague since the reveal of the opera ghost. The ballet mistress left Kayla sitting on a chair, with the slightly ominous claim that he would know to come for her. The statement was correct, of course, and she barely waited five minutes before she heard the creaking of the mirror. As the glass slid away, the masked man himself slid through the crack. When his green eyes finally landed on Kayla, he made a noise like a mouse being trodden on and immediately turned away. "Well that's more of the reaction I would have liked to see from the Vicomte!" Kayla exclaimed sarcastically. "What's that about?"

"You are not dressed, mademoiselle," Erik said in a strangled sort of voice.

Kayla chuckled. "Aw, your modest sensibilities are adorable." She breezed by him and into the tunnel. "Come along my shadowy friend, before I bleed out."

Erik was, as predicted, unamused with having to repair Kayla's stiches, though not as unamused as Kayla was upon the discovery that 1870's France was not a country with readily available painkillers.

"Am I permitted to inquire as to why exactly I am stitching up your stomach for the second time?" Erik asked somewhat crossly.

Kayla clenched her jaw and swore. "_Son_ of a _bitch_, that hurts. I thought I told you, I overestimated my capabilities."

"And what kind of capabilities would that be?" He tugged at the needle.

"_Lucifer and Crowley_. _Ow_. I may or may not have lost my temper with de Chagny."

"That still does not explain the tears."

"I kind of ripped off the top of my nightgown and my bandages and flashed the Vicomte."

"_What_?!"

"He threatened me, and I wanted to show him that his threats mean jack shit. Sorry, kind of impulsive."

Erik knotted the stitch, set the needle aside, and put his head in his hands. "It is reckless enough to wander the opera house in a nightdress, but it another matter entirely to undress in front of the managers and patrons. Had you not already proven yourself valuable, you would have been sent from the Populaire immediately."

"… Sorry."

"The managers appear to have great faith in your abilities, and they seem to know they need you, so I see no reason why you would face any repercussions. The fop, however, will not have the same response. Avoid him, and avoid being alone when he is in the opera house."

"In short, I won't act like a total idiot, got it."

"This is not a question of your intelligence, this is an issue of what the Vicomte is capable of."

"Aw! My little baby spectre is worried about me!"

"I am not _worried_, you are more than intelligent enough to follow my instructions – "

"And compliments! My goodness, what have I done in a previous life to deserve this good fortune?"

The look on Erik's face clearly read that she was pushing her luck, so once her stiches were done, she quickly abandoned the lair and its moody inhabitant.

* * *

The next day, as she was returning to the dorm to change her shirt before starting an afternoon of set building, she sensed eyes boring into the back of her head. Whipping around, she saw the one person she was least surprised to see: the fop himself. His eyes twinkled triumphantly as she turned. A wide grin was plastered across Raoul's handsome face, his hands were held loosely behind his body. He was obviously relaxed.

Kayla was not.

A snarl curled across her face. "What the hell do you want?"

Raoul stared calmly up at her from the foot of the dorm stairs. "Merely assuring myself that you are not hurt. It would not do for the opera house to lose one of its best employees."

"Ha. Ever consider that that's entirely your fault?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Let's think about this… you sliced me with your damn rapier?!"

"And when was that, mademoiselle?"

"At. The. Masquerade. In. The _freaking_. Mirror room."

"That is impossible." Raoul looked confused. "You were not there."

"Well, I was dressed to the bloody nines, and in a mask?!" She tapped her temple sarcastically. "Your sight is not as good as it used to be. Only explanation."

Raoul shook his head, his confidence returned. "That was not a rapier wound. You and I were never in contact at the masquerade. It must have been something else."

"And you'd classify my freaking wound because…?!"

"I was a soldier. I know how wounds look."

"You were in the navy!"

"I had bad days."

Kayla's mouth fell open. Throwing her head back, she howled with laughter. Raoul's eyes flickered with worry as he watched her from the bottom of the stairs. She laughed manically, amused by his reaction. "Hahaha, oh good heavens… ah… god bless inadvertent fandom references." Wiping a tear of mirth from her cheek, she turned her back on him and walked across the landing to the dormitory doors.

"Mademoiselle!"

"What?" Kayla snapped, not turning around.

"I also wanted to invite you to dinner."

She turned around and stomped back to the railing. "I would _rather_ have _dinner_ with _Satan_." Kayla spat out each individual word.

"Why so malicious, mademoiselle?"

"You're engaged you twerp! And even if you weren't, I'd rather start the apocalypse."

"I take it you are refusing my invitation?" Raoul's voice took on a dangerous tone.

She leant out over the railing, her torso hanging in open space and brandishing her index finger at the nobleman. "I will tell your fiancé, I swear to Gabriel."

He smirked. "You would never. You are too kind-hearted to hurt her, and besides, who would believe you? Who would take the word of a simple stage manager over a Vicomte?"

"Did you really just actually take the effort to say that shit out loud?"

"Such vulgar language does not become such a distinguished, beautiful girl."

She twisted her hand and shot an entirely different finger at him. "I don't know what you think I am, but let's just be clear I'm not." She unclenched her hand and waved her outstretched palm. "These are not the mistresses you are looking for."

"Abbots?"

Jamie emerged from the hallway, brown eyes flickering from the dangerously calm nobleman at the bottom of the stairs to the young woman seething at the top. "We were going to start on framework…" his voice trailed off, and he glared at the Vicomte. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Yes, you are, Beverly. Leave us," Raoul growled.

"It's Beaumont, actually," Jamie said, straight-faced.

Kayla tilted her head and smiled manically, channeling all of her inner Harley Quinn into the insane look. "No, you're not interrupting anything, Buchanan sweetie," she simpered. "I'll be right down, I just have to touch up my face. Cause you know, I'm a girl, and couldn't _possibly_ have anything else in my head."

She twirled around and flounced into the dorm, leaving an angry nobleman and a barely-holding-himself-together stagehand standing like rejected suitors on the floorboards below.

* * *

**Author's Note: That ****chapter was pretty short, but at least it's a chapter, right? *laughs nervously* My life's been hectic, lots of doctors appointments, family visiting, work, a wedding out of town, family battles... but I swear I'm going to try my best to never leave a chapter waiting this long again. I just have to formulate a path to _Don Juan Triumphant_, and then I'll be set. **

**Anyway, thanks to everyone who reviewed/favourited/followed/etc, and to Guest, Guest, Allie, ZoeShields, Lina, Guest, liandra2428, and Guest for their reviews, and to AkatsukiMercy1515 for the fave, and candylandamazon and Blinne for the follows since I can't thank y'all over PM. **

**Thanks guys, I'll try to make it more exciting next chapter!**

**Hugs,**

**Tierney**

**readpaintwrite**


	46. Chapter 46

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. In other news, what's this?! A chapter over 3 pages?! Bravo!**

* * *

46

A week passed before another incident. The crew had banded together admirably, and had already completed the tiered flooring and started on the overhanging balcony framework. The next step was to complete the framework, followed by the actual balcony and the spiral staircases, which Marius was openly dreading. Kayla, who was used to a more modern theatre system in which she was reporting to senior designers and receiving continuous feedback, found it hard to come to terms with her own authority in the building process. Let alone the costume department, over which she ruled with Agatha and Marie Clare as her only subjects, and whom she had to instruct, as they had never created such outlandish garments before. Not that they were helpless, but even the two battle-hardened seamstresses were daunted by Kayla and Erik's designs. The costumes, however, were only in the design stages, such as picking fabrics and creating general forms, since the casting list had yet to be accepted by the managers, and therefore the opera cast. Suffice it to say, Kayla was exhausted, and was under no obligation, whether it be manners or otherwise, to take any shit from anyone. The only department working as hard as Kayla's was the orchestra, whom Maestro Reyer was leading in intensive rehearsals of the _Don Juan_ score.

Her exhaustion, unfortunately, led to an argument with Madame Giry that narrowly bordered on becoming violent. Though Erik had stated that he trusted the ballet mistress in her dance expertise, Kayla knew – based on her knowledge of the finished product – Madame Giry's start to the Don Juan choreography, though beautiful, was not going to cut it.

"This is an opera house, not a brothel!" Madame Giry hissed as she pulled Kayla out of the studio, her French accent thick with anger.

"What are we in, the Regency era?! Oh, wait, we actually are…never mind. This isn't stripping, Madame, but the opera has highly sensual themes and will have to use dance to convey them."

"I will not let my girls subject themselves to this, it is inexcusable!"

"I think you may find that the composer disagrees."

"He has said that he trusts my judgement. I see nothing wrong with the dances I currently have."

Kayla gestured at herself in exasperation. "Hello? Ghost of Christmas future here?! I've seen the finished product, or at least portions of it, I know how it all goes down."

Madame Giry exhaled huffily, but did not refute her statement.

Kayla rubbed her forehead. "Okay, I have an idea. Swear at me if I'm out of line, but how 'bout we compromise: I'm going to handle teaching your older girls how to dance like complete tarts by your standards, and you're going to listen to me about certain segments. For the rest, you can choreograph as you like."

Narrowing her eyes, the ballet mistress stared contemplatively at the set manager. "Very well."

Kayla clapped her hands together. "'Kay, well that's decided. I'm'a channel me some Nicki Minaj."

"Who?"

"No one, don't worry about it."

And _that's_ how Kayla came to be standing in the centre of the dance studio with a circle of half-horrified-half-intrigued ballerinas around her, dancing like a stripper whose rent was due the next day. And _that_ was the moment – when she was drawing the skirt of her borrowed dance skirt up to expose her entire thigh – at which Raoul breezed through the door.

"MERCIFUL CROWLEY!" Kayla shrieked, ducking behind Meg, whose short form did not do much to hide the fact that the stage manager had removed her shirt earlier in the improvised routine, and was now wearing nothing but the black tutu-skirt and a sports bra.

"Ah, Mademoiselle!" Raoul, to Kayla's intense chagrin, did not seem fazed at all. "I hoped I might have a word with you in private."

"No you may effing not! I'm helping rehearsals! G-T-F-O!"

"Helping rehearsals, are you? My, my, how many departments are you assisting, mademoiselle? And what may I ask is the purpose of that divine costume?"

"None of your bloody business, now get the hell out!" The ballerinas looked shocked at Kayla's tone, which was nice as it had shocked any of them out of simpering at the Vicomte.

"The managers wish to speak with you in regards to the casting, and I would like to have a private word with you on the way to the office –"

"You are not going to get a single _damn_ peep out of me, and I can escort myself, _thanks_! Now _out_!"

"But mademoiselle – "

"YOU HEARD ME, GET THE FUCK OUT!"

He did not resist that time.

* * *

"I thought the casting was already through? Maestro Reyer and I were organising that." Really it had been Erik who drew up the cast list, and Reyer, eager to get the whole ordeal over with, had already approved.

Kayla was standing in the centre of the managers' office, back in her pants and work shirt, boots tapping impatiently on the rug. Carlotta lounged against a bookcase, her gaze fixated on her own manicure, and Piangi stood next to her, hands clasped over his protruding stomach. Christine was seated on a chair in front of Andre's desk, while Firmin was seated at his own, with Andre and a smug Raoul standing behind. "Yes, but you see -" Firmin blustered.

"Should the managers and patron not get a say?" Raoul interrupted smoothly. "I believe we are entitled."

"Your place in in an _office_, not the arts," Kayla quoted angrily. "And you aren't entitled to _shit_, monsieur."

Christine flinched at the curse, but Kayla was too incensed to care. The set manager drew a folded paper from her belt. "This is a copy of the final casting list." She tossed it carelessly on Firmin's desk. "Question it if you will, but this is what both the maestro and I found in our offices, sealed by the composer himself."

Raoul snatched up the paper immediately. "This says Christine is Aminta, the lead soprano!" His tone was half smug and half furious.

Kayla shrugged. "Based on what Reyer's read of the score, the part s written for her. He is her teacher, after all."

"_Was_ her teacher! That beast has no part in her life now!"

The young soprano curled in on herself, brown eyes wide and frightened. Carlotta marched over and tore the list out of the Vicomte's hands. "Eh, it is no matter," the diva snorted. "I do not care if I do not lead dis cursed opera. Strange that Ubaldo is da lead baritone – he is taking da title role, though it seemed da phantom did not wish it."

Aw, dammit… going to have to go bargain for Piangi's life now. Kayla made a mental note to organize a meeting with Erik to resolve the issue.

Andre retrieved the list and scanned it nervously. "This… this seems to be in order…" he agreed, his voice hesitant.

Kayla took it back. "Good. I need to make more progress on costumes, and that's going to require fittings. Can you let the cast know, Carlotta?"

The diva nodded briskly. "I will see to it." She swept regally out of the room, her fiancé in tow.

"I do not want to do it."

Christine's voice was small. Raoul hurried to her side, circling a protective arm over her shoulder. "Of course not, and you will not have to, my love."

"Christine." Kayla's voice was firm. "Look at me." The soprano reluctantly made eye contact. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to learn Aminta's part. You are going to get fitted for the costumes. You're going to go to rehearsals. And when the time comes you are going to get up on that stage and sing; you are going to play the role that _destiny_ has chosen for you. We don't have any other choice."

Raoul exploded. "Of course we do! We do not have to perform this opera!"

Kayla face palmed before turning to glare at Raoul. "I don't think you quite understand what's at stake here. This isn't up to you. This is up to Christine and the composer. He's holding literally all the cards at the moment, so I would suggest you hold up on whatever pissing contest you're having with the Phantom of the freaking Opera and stand the hell down."

If the look on his face was any indication, Raoul – despite frequent exposure to Kayla – was unused to being spoken to in such a manner.

"Christine, I know you're freaking out, and this is way too much to handle, but you're strong enough for this. There are people who are more than willing to help you, and heaven knows I'm always here to talk, but trust me when I say that your performance is going to bring the bloody house down."

Internally, she winced. That was a wrongly accurate choice of words.

After a pregnant pause, Christine gave a timid nod. Kayla, though she knew the fight was far from over, allowed her face to relax into a grin. "Kay, cool. I think Maestro Reyer is doing a cast and chorus rehearsal in the morning, 'round nine 'ish? He'll have your parts for you. Try to be there, all right? I'll let you know when I need you for the fittings, but come see me whenever." Her work done, Kayla breezed victoriously out of the office without waiting for dismissal.

She had walked almost an entire wing away from the office when she was slammed against the wall. She let out an involuntary cry of pain, feeling the threads still holding her stomach shut stretching from the strain.

"How _dare_ you undermine me in front of the managers and my fiancé?" Raoul hissed. "You have no right to place yourself above me, no right!"

"I'm actually ranked much higher than you in the usefulness, manners, and haircare departments," Kayla chirped. "So I've got that going for me."

He shook her shoulders, keeping her pinned to the wall and making her teeth rattle. "I am you better, mademoiselle!"

"Am I _really_ about to have this debate with you?! You are not my better, Parisian hierarchy means nothing to me! I'm a human being, same as you!"

"You are a mere manager, and a woman at that."

"_Wow_! I hope you led with that when you were proposing to Christine! Why the _hell_ did you waste your time following me all the way out here if I mean nothing to the likes of such a strong and mighty nobleman? Huh?!"

She could have sworn his eyes softened. "You could never mean nothing to me, Kayla." His gaze grew affectionate with bipolar swiftness. Smoothing back an askew lock of hair, he leaned forward. "You are beautiful when you are angry…" His face was uncomfortably close to hers.

"You and your fricking double negatives! Stand the hell down, asshole!"

He laughed roguishly. "Do not deny your feelings, Kayla. You want this as much as I do." His lips brushed feather light over her cheek.

"_No I don't you pretentious bastard_!" He chuckled and his lips moved to the underside of her jaw. "Oh my god!" She shoved at his chest. "_ERIK_!"

"Stop fighting, Kayla," he purred. "You want this."

"Get off me you son of a bitch! _ERIK_!"

"I have no idea who you could possibly be calling for, but these walls are thick. No one can hear you."

Unfortunately, he was right. There was not a rescue on the way. Her mind grew razor sharp with concentration. "Do you think I'm the kind of girl who gives a shit?" Bracing herself, she slammed her head against his. "_ERIK_!" Swearing, her assailant relaxed his grip. She pulled up her leg and drove her knee between his legs with all the force she could muster. Head pounding like a drum from the impact, she threw herself away from the wall as Raoul sank to the ground. "ERIK!" Kayla spun, her leg flying with deadly accuracy into Raoul's ribs. He wheezed as all the air rushed from his lungs. "Don't touch me!" Drawing her arm back, she clocked the Vicomte square in the face. He toppled over, and lay without moving on the carpet.

A panel slid open in the wall opposite, and a white mask emerged from the gloom. "I heard screams," he said slowly, green eyes flicking from the panting, dishevelled girl to the unconscious nobleman.

She pointed at Raoul shakily. "Could you… please just… check that…I didn't actually kill him?"

Erik stalked out of the tunnel, cloak swishing as he knelt and checked for a pulse, a disgusted look on his face. "He's alive. I could not care less if there is any life threatening damage, but I tend to doubt it. He might not remember any of this."

"Thank the lord. Where the hell were you?"

"Watching your crew assemble scaffolding. Thankfully I was in earshot. What did I tell you about avoiding the fop?"

"Not to, but it's not like I thought he was going to follow me," Kayla retorted, some of the shakiness leaving her voice. "Your name makes an excellent war cry, I must admit. Now let me in, I need a drink and I need to get back to work, and in that order."

Stumbling past him into the tunnel, she paused and turned back, watching him stare at the fop with a satisfied half-smile flickering under the mask. "I did not know you could fight," he remarked.

"I watch way too many Marvel movies for my own good."

"Marvel?"

"Marvel. It's one of those things about people with special abilities that I watch on my little black box, remember?"

"I suppose I will have to give up understanding all of your references."

"Probably. Unless you're interested in a visit to Canada in the modern age."

"I might take you up on that if this composing business does not work out."

"Deal. Now, let's go search your den for some alcohol."

* * *

**Author's Note: My goodness. A chapter I'm not pissed at about minimal length. At last. **

**Welp, I start school in a week. Back to classes and all that. And there was a fiction writing course I was stressed about getting into, because I had to submit a portfolio as an audition of sorts, and they only accept at most 25 students out of hundreds of applicants. But my portfolio - which included an excerpt from this fic, by the way - was accepted and I'm in the course, people! So I'll try my best to get back into the swing of regular updates, but if I'm late occasionally, know that I'm working hard on becoming a better writer, which hopefully will benefit all you lovely people!**

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed, followed, etc, and to liandra2428, Guest, Guest, Detective Of The Opera, and bemyheroseverus for their lovely guest reviews.**

**Sending all my love out to y'all, and good luck to everyone who's heading back to school!**

**Hugs,**

**Tierney**


	47. Chapter 47

**Author's Note: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. No officer there's nothing in the basement. That's just my cat playing the organ.**

* * *

47

For the next month, Kayla spent all of her time in the opera house, walking almost continuous laps between the dorms, the stage, the ballet studio, the dining hall, the lair, the costume department, the ballet studio for a second time, and the stage once more. She was now essentially leading every department besides the orchestra, and Madame Giry, only slightly resentful at the intrusion of her authority, had decreed that Kayla attend ballet rehearsals. The last time she had even attempted dance of any kind had been when she was five – social dance in high school did not count – and it was far harder now than it had been then. Erik finally removed her stiches on the first of February, the bright pink stripe proud as a battle scar. Every opportunity since then was an opportunity for Kayla to reassert herself as physically equal to her crew, though she felt like a duckling next to the dancers of the senior corps. She fell into bed each night with every muscle aching, joints cracking in protest.

Not that the builds, rehearsals, or any other _Don_ _Juan_ related activity had been a cakewalk for any of them; the entire opera house was a mess of nerves. Christine backed out of the performance almost every week, breaking down in hysterics every single time. Kayla was always called in to deal with the fallout, which generally ended in an impromptu game of tag with Raoul, who had yet to catch her again but was still always in earshot of the numerous insults she was able to throw back. So incensed were they at the numerous attacks that in retaliation, Jamie and the rest of the junior set crew had taken it upon themselves to torment the Vicomte in any way possible. The core of their plan involved extending their flirtations to both Christine _and_ Kayla, a scheme with which the members of Team Daäe and Team Abbots were all too happy to comply. Often flirtations happened simultaneously, resulting in a mental standoff as Raoul seethed over his inability to stop them from tormenting his unaware fiancé or his fiery wished-she-was-his-mistress.

In the third week of February, Kayla went to bed during a snowstorm, only after Jamie and Clemens had taken it upon themselves to physically remove her from the sewing machine and drag her back to the dormitory. The scaffolding of the set had been completed that day, spiral staircases and all, much to Marius's relief.

Kayla glanced over at the young soprano's bed. Tousled chocolate curls were visible from under the white quilt. She appeared to have calmed down after her outburst of the morning, during which Kayla and Raoul had screamed at each other over whether Christine was to stay at the Populaire or be taken immediately to the de Chagny mansion, while the cast watched as intently as if they were meant to imitate the passion of the row.

Meg's golden head was visible from the next cot over, the curve of her back rising and falling rhythmically. Kayla surreptitiously pulled out her phone. 2 AM. She was definitely not getting paid enough for this. Maybe she should talk to Erik about negotiating a raise.

Fair wage or not, she was able to forget the opera just enough to drift off to sleep.

* * *

"Kayla? Kayla…"

A whisper broke through Kayla's tumultuous dreams like a runaway locomotive. She moaned softly.

"Kayla…"

With a tremendous effort, she cracked one eye open. Christine was standing over her, a black cloak wrapped around her slender form. A bouquet of blood red roses was hanging loosely from her hand.

"Ugh… What's up, baby?" Kayla groaned, draping her arm across her forehead exhaustedly. It was still dark; she could barely see the young soprano.

"I was wondering… well, I was hoping that you could go somewhere with me."

It took a moment for Kayla to put the pieces together. "You woke me up to visit your dad's grave with you?"

Christine shuffled nervously. "I just… I didn't want to go alone."

"No, don't be nervous, you're fine… why me though? Why not Raoul, or Meg?"

"Raoul's being so sweet, and he cares so much, but he needs rest. So does Meg."

"And what about me? No rest for the wicked, eh?"

"I'm sorry…"

"No, no, I'm teasing. I'll come. Are you sure you want to wait though? I'm not dressed, and I don't really have… well, graveyard appropriate attire."

"It does not really matter, but Meg has a black cloak. She won't mind."

"Kay, cool." Reaching under her pillow, Kayla pulled out her phone and switched on the flashlight before leaning over the foot board and rummaging through her trunk.

Christine gasped. "What is…?"

"Hard to explain. Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies as far as this goes…" In record time, Kayla slipped into her jeans and a loose black shirt she had stolen from Erik's wardrobe during some ill-advised skulking. Christine seemed amazed.

"You can dress so quickly!" she whispered enviously.

"The perks of dressing like a dude." Kayla tugged on her boots. "Cool. Le'go."

* * *

Kayla was on edge as she and Christine tiptoed past the sleeping Vicomte, down the stairs, and through the stark and silent halls of the Populaire. Exiting through the stage door, they walked across the courtyard to where a groggy looking driver was stumbling out of the stable door. "I need to go the cemetery," said Christine softly, handing the man a small purse that jingled. The man's unfocused eyes brightened as he hefted the bag in his palm. "Yes, mademoiselles," he agreed gruffly, trotting into the stable and leading two black horses out towards an open air carriage. Christine looped her arm through Kayla's and wandered aimlessly along the wall, stopping at a carving of an angel. Her doe eyes gazed at it dreamily. Kayla, meanwhile, was panicking.

_What happened to not getting involved you ridiculous child now you're going to screw up the whole story now what holy sHIT I heard a thump oh crap it's him he's not going to like this Oh my god this is happening its really happening stay calm stay fuCKING CALM_

Christine finally pulled her attention away from the angel and led the way towards the carriage. A hooded form obscured by a billowing black cloak sat on the tongue of the carriage, reins in hand. "To my father's grave, please." The figure turned, showing a strip of pale cheek and one green eye, before nodding and setting the horses in motion.

Kayla turned back to watch the opera house, spotting Raoul's stricken face watching from the window. He looked truly anguished.

She reflexively flipped him off.

* * *

The wheels bumped and jolted on the country road as they left the city. Fog settled over Paris, battling the slowly brightening sky. Christine stared out at the trees, her eyes unfocused and contemplative. It was completely and utterly silent, without even a birdsong to cut through the stillness.

_In sleep he sang to me…_

For the first time in a very long time, the haunting melodies rose unbidden in Kayla's mind.

_In dreams he came…_

A peek out of the corner of her eye showed that Christine was mouthing the familiar words. Kayla stifled a sigh of annoyance. Could her stupid head just forgo the creepy background music for once?

_The voice that calls to me…_

The figure that Kayla knew without a doubt to be Erik sat unmoving on the driver's seat, the long folds of black making him more of a spectre than a man.

_And speaks my name…_

An involuntary tremor wracked Kayla's body, and an image of Raoul of Raoul on a pure white horse rose unbidden before her eyes. Galloping through the trees, leaping over fallen logs, hooves pounding rhythmically through the dead leaves.

Damn these men and their hero complexes.

The drive to the cemetery took a much longer time than Kayla had expected. It was a bit of a shock when the horses halted before a tall cast iron gate. Kayla hopped out first, offering her hand to Christine, whom, wearing a dress, took a slightly longer time to descend. As she stepped down and headed towards the graveyard, Kayla sprang forward and grabbed the hem of Erik's cloak. He turned his shadowy face towards her a cold and bestial gleam in his eyes. "Just… be careful, kay? Just keep in mind that I'd prefer if neither of us died." Her tone was hushed and light.

Erik stared impassively at her. Just when she thought he was no going to respond at all, he nodded. She released his cloak and he twitched the reins, setting the horses into motion. She jogged after Christine, ignoring the hungry way his gaze remained fixed on them as they slipped through the gate.

A white layer of snow covered the ground, and frost wreathed the graves in delicate spirals. The air was thick with foreboding. Kayla walked next to Christine as the soprano walked between the monuments, as if in a trance.

"_You were once my one companion,_

_You were all that mattered,_

_You were once my friend and father,_

_Then my world was shattered_…"

Christine's voice adopted an ethereal quality, complementing the silence rather than shattering it.

"_Wishing you were somehow here again, _

_Wishing you were somehow near,_

_It only seemed if I just dreamed _

_Somehow you would be here_

_Wishing I could hear your voice again, _

_Knowing that I never would _

_Dreaming of you won't help me to do_

_All that you dreamed I could_…"

They walked through the silent graves, overshadowed by giant crosses and tall angels with wings outstretched. A number of the angelic carvings had their hands over their faces. Kayla winced. _Not today, Moffatt. Not today_.

"_Passing bells and sculpted angels_

_Cold and monumental_

_Seem for you the wrong companions_

_You were warm and gentle_

_Too many years fighting back tears_

_Why can't the past just die?_"

Turning a corner, Kayla's eyes scanned over the wide, snow covered avenue stretching out between the tombs, with the surprisingly elaborate Daäe crypt rising mournfully at the end.

"_Wishing you were somehow here again_

_Knowing we must say goodbye_

_Try to forgive, teach me to live_

_Give me the strength to try_

_No more memories, no more silent tears_

_No more gazing across the wasted years_…"

Christine stepped at an almost ceremonial pace towards the monument, sinking onto the stairs once she reached it. The bouquet of red roses fell, forgotten, from her ivory hands.

"_Help me say goodbye…_

_Help me say… goodbye!"_

Kayla stood a number of paces behind Christine, afraid to break the fragile moment, a moment, Kayla had to remind herself, which was meant only for Christine.

A warm orange glow emanated from the Daäe crypt as the metal doors slowly swung open. Christine, head bent, grieved on the cold stone steps, oblivious.

"_Wandering child; so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance_…"

Christine, dazed, slowly lifted her gaze to the brightening tomb, while Kayla, despite her better instincts, moved closer to her young friend.

"_Angel or father? Friend or phantom? Who is it, tell me?"_

"_Have you forgotten your Angel..?"_

"_Angel, oh, speak. What endless longings echo in this whisper?"_

"_Too long you've wandered in winter, far from my fathering gaze…"_

"_Wildly my mind beats against you, yet the soul obeys…_"

Rising slowly, Christine stood, entranced. The ghostly voice sang, each note humming with emotion. A single tear rolled down Kayla's cheek. _Damn if that man can sing_.

"_Angel of music, you denied me, turning from true beauty!"_

"_Angel of music, I denied you, turning from true beauty!"_

"_Angel of music, don't reject me, come to your strange angel..."_

"_Angel of music, I won't reject you, come to me strange Angel_!"

Their voices overlapped in perfect harmony, tending chills running up Kayla's spine, and a twinge in her gut that she told herself was not jealousy.

"_I am your Angel of music…"_

The Phantom's voice deepened, taking on a seductive, vaguely demonic tone. Christine ascended the stairs dreamily.

"_Come to me, Angel of music…"_

A hoarse yell hit Kayla's ears from behind, and she dove out of the way, skidding across the icy stone as the Vicomte on his white steed galloped toward the crypt. "Knulla dig, du skitstovël!" Kayla yelped.

"Christine, no!" Raoul grabbed his fiancé, the brunette struggling against him.

Kayla dragged herself to her feet and sprinted over, looping her arms over Christine's shoulders and shoving Raoul out of the way. "It's okay, c'm'ere, baby, it's all right," she cooed as Christine snapped awake, looking around in confusion.

"Papa," Christine whispered.

"It's all right, hon, breathe, I'm right here," Kayla soothed, rubbing the soprano's back.

"Christine, whatever you believe, that _monster_, that _thing_, is not your father!" Raoul whipped out his sword and thundered up the stairs.

"Crap. Come on, babe, we're moving," Kayla chirped, gently pushing the young soprano closer to the shelter of a monumental angel as the Phantom leapt from the crypt roof and the illusion cracked.

Rapiers clashed as the two combatants surged together. They danced through the grave stones, Raoul always on open offensive. The Phantom slid about like a shadow, seizing every opportunity to gain advantage. Kayla could not help the chuckle that escaped her as the Ghost swung his cape right across Raoul's face. Christine watched the battle, enthralled by the sing of metal on metal.

The fight seemed almost choreographed, each blow landing with perfect precision, though the blades did not strike either opponent. They darted around the graves, evenly matched, despite the Opera Ghost's air of a cat playing with a mouse. Abruptly, drops of crimson freckled the ivory song; first blood. Raoul yelled and staggered back, clutching his arm. The Phantom bared his teeth in a triumphant snarl. But in merely the time it took Kayla to blink, the Opera Ghost was falling, and the nobleman was leaping upon him, sword outstretched.

"Raoul, no!"

Christine, with more daring than Kayla had believed her capable of, darted forward and grabbed her fiancé's arm. "No," she repeated, throwing a pitying glance at her teacher. "Not like this."

Erik's lips drew up in an angry growl, green eyes flashing. Okay, note to self – pity tactics are not appreciated.

Raoul stared down at the Opera Ghost, rapier outstretched and chest heaving. Blood dripped in splashes of crimson down his white sleeve. With a sigh of exhaustion, he lowered his blade. Christine tugged at his arm. "Not like this," she said again.

Raoul nodded sharply and drew her over to his white stallion, which, miraculously, had not moved during the battle. "Kayla," he said firmly.

Kayla backed away a couple of paces. "In case you haven't noticed, your horse seats two. I'll walk."

"Do not be stubborn, Kayla," Raoul snapped. "You are not safe here."

"What? With Monsieur Rapier-Happy over here?" Kayla scoffed, jabbing her thumb at the Opera Ghost, who was still struggling to his feet a few metres from her. "I'm safer with him than I'll be with you. I'm a neutral party, remember? I'm Switzerland."

Raoul made an exasperated noise. "Kayla…"

An arm of iron wrapped around her waist. Kayla shrieked. Christine screamed.

"Yes, run along, Vicomte," Erik snarled, his voice purring in Kayla's ear. "She will come to no harm from me." The statement was given no confidence by the cold steel raised to her throat.

"No! Kayla! I will not leave you alone with that monster!"

"You've got sweet eff-all of a choice there, buddy," Kayla wheezed, trying not to move so as to avoid slicing her own trachea on Erik's sword. "Who's more important here? Me? Or your fiancé?"

Blue pierced blue, one pair anguished, and the other cold as steel. With a groan of defeat, Raoul lifted the soprano onto the horse. With a final longing look at Kayla, he swung into the saddle behind his fiancé. "No, Raoul, no, _please_, we can't leave her." The nobleman ignored his passenger's protests and spurred the horse forward. "Raoul, no! _Kayla_!"

"Such loyalty," Erik purred. "So… _touching_." The blade at her throat was icy.

"Jävla _helvete_, Erik! Were the theatrics necessary?!"

The pressure on her larynx vanished, though the arm around her waist did not. His arm stayed fixed as he practically dragged her through the graves to a narrow gate on the far side, where the two black horses were tethered to the carriage the girls had arrived in. Wasting no time, the Phantom drew his sword and sliced neatly through the leather straps, releasing the two animals. Neighing and tossing their heads, the horses skittered forward. From an artist's perspective, they were gorgeous beasts. From Kayla's current mind set, they were demonic.

"Dude?! What's the story?!" Kayla squeaking, eyeing the prancing hooves with distinct mistrust.

The Opera Ghost did not respond. Giving no indication that he had even heard her, he tightened his grip around her hips and swung her up onto one of the horses. Kayla flailed.

"Sweet _lord_! Erik, I can't ride!"

The horse chose that moment to rear.

Kayla screamed. The horse screamed back. With catlike grace, Erik leapt up and grabbed the bridle, bring the animal back under control. The Opera Ghost stroked the horse's head, murmuring softly to it until it calmed. Kayla, still clinging on, was shaking. Still hanging onto the halter, he led it over to the second horse, wrapping the second pair of reins around his wrist. Without any further warning, he swung up onto the horse, sitting down gracefully right behind her.

In the split second it took for him to mount, she had hoped that she would at least feel some muscle. Unfortunately, he was wearing at least five layers, and all she could feel was fabric.

His arms, however, wrapped around her sides, weren't bad at all. Neither were his legs, which were pressed against hers.

The horse's body jolted underneath her as Erik steered their mount along the twists and turns of the isolated road, darkened by the shadows and tall trees. Without the inconvenience of a carriage to drag behind them, the horses moved much more quickly, and it seemed like mere minutes before the Parisian skyline rose before them. "Um, not to alarm you, but is riding right through the city the best course of action here?"

Erik's chest shifted strangely against her back, almost as if he had laughed. "If one thing can be trusted, it is the ineptitude of Parisian police." The comment was muttered, warm against Kayla's ear and sending vibrations down her spine. Kayla choked.

A couple of blocks from the opera house, Erik swung off the horse, lifting Kayla after him the moment his feet touched the ground. Kayla resisted the urge to kiss the cobblestones as she was safely separated from the shuffling animal. Erik slapped a gloved hand against the horses' flanks, and they trotted off down the street. "I'm… I'm assuming they know the way home?"

Nodding almost imperceptibly, the Phantom grabbed her arm and pulled her towards a building of slate grey stone. Pulling a key from somewhere in the depths of his cloak, he leaned forward and twisted it into an iron wrought grate in the bottom of the wall. He held open the grate for Kayla and waited for her to squeeze through before slithering into the tunnel himself. Their walk through the labyrinth was dead silent, punctuated only by Kayla's shaky breaths as they followed the tunnel deeper and deeper with neither hesitation nor explanation on the part of the spectre. It was only when she found herself stepping through a door and into the lair that Kayla realized how far the Phantom's excavations truly extended.

He walked toward the organ, pace slow, measured, and predatory. He stopped by a small table, staring at it intently. Then, with a roar of pure rage, he threw out his arm and sent the items crashing to the floor. Gripping the table by its edges, he lifted it and hurled it against the wall, where it shattered like matchwood.

"Dude?! What the hell!?"

He yelled again, sweeping a brass candlestick to the ground with a loud clang.

"Erik! Breathe! What's going on?!"

He prowled forward and sank onto the organ bench, fingers immediately flying over the keys with a dissonant melody. Kayla could see his shoulders shaking.

"Is there anything I could do?" she called over the musical clamor. No response. Cautiously moving forward, she paced tentatively towards the Phantom. She stopped beside the instrument, watching Erik's furious face, eyes shut, brow furrowed, and the right side a white blank page.

She immediately had Mumford &amp; Sons stuck in her head.

Quite a substantial amount of time passed before he finally stopped playing. His head drooped loosely forward, but whether from exhaustion or despair, Kayla could not tell.

"Is there anything I can do? Show you some cat gifs? Play some music you'll hate so much you'll feel better? Summon Lucifer to kill the fop? Or Crowley?"

His shoulders jerked up violently. Kayla frowned.

"Dude. I don't know if you're laughing or crying, and it is concerning to my soul."

Lifting his head slightly, Erik's green eyes glistened at her from under the layer of porcelain.

"So… crying, then?"

The Phantom made an amused sort of choking noise.

"Both? Merciful heavens, the indecision is killing me!"

Shaking his head, Erik stared down at the keys, lips twitching.

"Well, make a decision. Summoning Satan will take some preparation. I'll need matches. And spray paint."

Erik almost chuckled. "You are a strange one, aren't you?"

"I'm in good company. 'We're all mad here', my sister would say."

"Though this is a less pleasant sort of Wonderland."

"I'm pretty sure Lewis Carrol was high when he wrote that, so I think we're entitled to take liberties."

She reached into her cloak pocket and frowned. "My phone's in my trunk. If I had my phone we'd totes look at some gifs. And this is Meg's cloak I'm wearing. Should probably return that."

"One would think I would be used to your strange dialects by now."

Kayla struck a pose, leaning dramatically against the organ. "I'm _always_ a novelty."

Erik finally laughed. It was as deep as his voice, smooth, musical… and sexy. Kayla fought to contain her blush. "You could never be anything but a novelty, my little magician."

The fight to control her cheek colour instantly failed.

"Well," Kayla said, rubbing at her cheeks and searching furiously for a change of topic. "I hate to mention this now that you're actually calm, but you know the Vicomte's going to be a total dick about this, right?"

"The fop is a weak little boy. He will not beat me."

Kayla snorted. "Men. Everything's a competition with you, isn't it?" She nudged his shoulder with her fist. His glance at her was confused.

"I am not a man."

"Right. I think your laugh just now proved that wrong. Chicks and monsters don't sound that good."

His smile brightened uncharacteristically.

"They're going to do it. Perform your opera, that is. And… just be careful, 'kay? Raoul's going to have a go at being a tricky bastard. And you can't kill Piangi, f.y.i."

"I already gave you my word I would not." He sounded offended.

"Right. Forgot about that. I'm overtired. What with trying to make your opera perfect and all."

"Your devotion is appreciated."

"Shut up."

* * *

**Author's Note: My gosh. This was a monster chapter. 11 pages. I usually average about 6. **

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favourited, followed, etc. And to Guest and Guest for their reviews. I love you all. **

**I've started school, so updates could be sporadic after this... but my first fiction writing class is tonight! I'm super intimidated, to be honest. Hopefully it'll be fun though. **

**I wish all the best to everyone back in school. Study hard, kids!**

**Hugs and test cheat sheets,**

**Tierney**


	48. Chapter 48

**Author's Note: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

48

"Abbots."

Kayla shifted under the covers, screwing her eyes shut and ignoring the voice.

"Abbots."

Letting a squeak of annoyance slip out, she nuzzled her head further into her pillow.

"_Abbots_."

"Nein."

"_Abbots_."

"_Nein_."

The quilt was ripped unceremoniously from over her face, and with a squeal of pure rage, Kayla opened her eyes and squinted against the pale light.

And was immediately met with the sight of Carlotta's brown eyes hovering inches from her own.

"_I'm getting married today_," the diva whispered.

Kayla grabbed her pillow and slammed it over her face. "Carlotta, give me a minute. I'm not quite sure who I am currently."

"Identity crisis?"

"No, I'm still asleep, you idiot."

A muffled thump and a dull ache alerted Kayla to the cushion Carlotta slammed against her stomach. "No time for sleeping or identity crisis! I'm getting married today, Abbots! Up, up, up!" The pillow yanked from Kayla's face was immediately whipped against the top of her head.

"_Du smyga! Vad i Guds namn tror du att du gör din idiot! Vad fan_?!"

"You will 'ave to try dat in italiano if you want me to understand."

"_Vi maledicono_."

Carlotta laughed. "No curses can hurt me today! I'm getting married, Abbots!"

"So you've said." The stage manager slowly sat up, rubbing the back of her head. What day was it? Was it the second week of March already? The days, full of rehearsals, building, sewing, and semi-regular meetings with Erik had served to blend the days together until she could tell none of them apart. Except, of course, for the days when she was alerted to Raoul's presence in the opera house, during which she retreated exclusively into the lair. Those days usually ended in some sort of drinking contest with the Opera Ghost… at least, Kayla treated them as one. Erik was generally reserved in his alcohol consumption.

What had happened last night? She was at Carlotta's, so obviously there was some sort of revelry. A quick glance around the room showed a number of slept-in cots, so probably the cousins were here? She vaguely remembered dancing on a table.

"You really let yourself go last night, didn't you, my leetle _puttana_?" Carlotta crowed, punching her shoulder good naturedly.

Oh. Right. The 1870's version of a bachelorette party. "Please, please, Carlotta, tell me I didn't completely embarrass myself or my departments."

"It was just us girls! And you didn't do anything untoward, you just started telling da most fantastic stories. Something about a girl and a restaurant and a leetle slimy creature. And you did some sort of jig on da table."

"Excellent. If you could just smother me with that pillow there, Giudicelli, that'd be awesome."

"Den we woold be one girl short!" Allegra's Italian accent seemed even smoother than usual as she swanned into the room, followed by the remainder of Carlotta's female cousins. "We need all da bridesmaids to be perfect!"

"Which is why you have to get up now. We 'ave a bride to prepare!" Delfina cheered, clapping her hands together.

* * *

Kayla was immediately put in charge of makeup, no questions asked, while the rest of the cousins worked around her, painting lacquer onto her nails, curling her bright red hair, holding up different pieces of jewellery for the diva to inspect. They kept up a continuous stream of conversation, sometimes in what Kayla always heard as English, sometimes in fluent Italian, but their tones were so expressive and their laughter so contagious that it did not matter either way. As she smoothed blush over Carlotta's cheeks, Kayla marveled at how fast the weeks had gone by. Rehearsals had progressed with feverish, stressful perfection. The set was built, costumes fitted and completed, orchestra undergoing strenuous rehearsals under the unseen eye of the composer, and lyrics memorized with almost religious zeal. Firmin and Andre had stayed well out of the way, as had been requested, though the same could not be said for the patron. Despite Raoul's continuous interference, the opera was to premiere in a fortnight, and Erik, continuously monitoring his work through the column in Box 5, had deemed the opera almost ready to perform. Emphasis on _almost_.

A hand slapped her wrist, and Kayla almost dropped the brush as she jolted back out of her thoughts. "Ai, ai, ai, what is da most important thing 'ere? Me! None of dis daydreaming!" The lead soprano's voice was teasing, despite the harsh words.

"Bloody hell, Giudicelli, self-centered much?" Kayla returned in a mock-snarl, tapping the soft brush against Carlotta's elegant nose. "I mean, for heaven's sakes, what are doing, getting married or something?" Much to Kayla's satisfaction, the cousins burst into laughter instantly.

* * *

Carlotta's dress was not white.

Instead, it was blue, in shades as varied as the clear sky outside the window. The underskirt was velvet, hemmed with a thick stripe of darker silk. Layered over top was an incredibly intricate overskirt of snowy lace, rings upon rings of which looped around the short sleeves as well. A cerulean sash was knotted around her waist. The sleeves hung off her shoulders, the neckline cutting a considerable distance down her chest before looping back up to her arm again. Against her red hair, the fabric shone. In short, she would be the only thing anyone's eyes were on today.

"Dude. You're about to make vows of commitment, you sure you want that much cleavage out there?"

Carlotta smacked Kayla's shoulder with her fan. "It is my wedding, everybody is going to be looking at _me_!"

"Is this because Piangi's seen it all anyway?"

Allegra swore in Italian, dropping the ribbon she was supposed to be tying into Carlotta's red braids and taking a few steps away, hands over her face. Delfina shrieked and hurled a hairbrush against the wall. The others had similar reactions, jolting back in mock horror before melting into laughter again. Carlotta was as close to blushing as Kayla had ever seen her.

"You're regretting ever associating with me, aren't you?"

"At da moment, yes, Abbots. Yes I am."

Sighing dramatically, Kayla grabbed the tin of kohl and began applying wing-tipped eyeliner. "But think about all the makeup opportunities you have to take advantage of now!"

"Dat is da only reason you're still here."

"Of course."

They stared at each other for a disproportionately long time before Carlotta's embarrassed face cracked and she grinned up at her blonde friend. "You are _un ragazza stupida_, no?"

"Thank you. I try."

* * *

"Okay, okay, so we just walk down the aisle?"

"Si, si, in front of Carlotta."

"I've never done this before. I don't walk down aisles. I don't think I've ever actually been to a wedding, let alone been in the party."

"It is all right, it is… how you say? _Molto facile_."

"Very easy?"

"Si, si."

"If it's not as easy as you say, Allegra, I'm haunting you from beyond the grave."

The beautiful Italian tossed her head. "I shall welcome your company, leetle Abbots."

Kayla hefted the bouquet of red roses – she'd be happy if she never saw the flower again, to be honest – in her lace-gloved hands, the stems strangely cold against her skin. "Your flippancy in regards to my threats is both infuriating and entertaining, I applaud you."

"I woold not let Carlotta 'ear dat, Abbots. Dis is 'er special day, after all. Save da compliments for da bride."

"If you insist."

* * *

Carlotta was so stunning that Kayla would have been almost jealous if it had not been for the subtle little gold glimmer of happiness in the diva's brown eyes. Holding a bouquet of yellow roses, the soprano practically glided after the procession of bridesmaids, as confident as a queen in court. Her pale neck looped with pearls, her crimson hair braided intricately with white roses and blue ribbon, she was the perfect picture of period elegance. _Where had this been in the movie?_

It must have been an unplanned happy ending.

The ceremony was mostly in French, for the benefit of the scores of fans and friends in the congregation. The Vicomte and the managers were seated in the front row, next to Carlotta and Piangi's parents, who – having greeted Kayla and the rest of the bridesmaids fluently in French-slash-what Kayla heard as English before waddling to their seats – were apparently pretending to speak nothing but Italian. Raoul looked extremely put out with the whole situation. Carlotta and Piangi said their vows in musical-sounding Italian, both perfectly composed and both grinning widely. The bridesmaids stood on one side of the altar, with a perfect view of the couple and the – mostly – handsome Italian groomsmen. To her shock, Kayla saw Enrico waving subtly at her, dark eyes flashing with delight. Built in protection from Raoul at the reception. Perfect.

After what seemed like an eternity of speeches and vows, the newly married opera stars waltzed back up the aisle to thunderous applause. The bridesmaids and groomsmen paired up and followed. "You look beautiful, signorina." Enrico's gaze was warm and soothing, very unlike the men she had been exposed to more recently.

"You look quite dashing yourself!"

"I am very glad you're pleased to see me."

"Hell right I am. You would not believe the three months I've had."

"Not excellent company? Shame…"

"Enough about that, free up your card or whatever you use to pick partners, you're dancing with me."

"I thought you would never ask."

* * *

**Author's Note: Well, that was a short one my friends! I've been pressed for time, what with papers and research and all the joyous terrors that plague English majors on a daily basis. Next one will be longer, promise. **

**Now for all of you wondering about translations, I've included them here:**

**_Du smyga! Vad i Guds namn tror du att du gör din idiot! Vad fan_?! - ****You bastard! What in the name of god do you think you're doing you idiot (Swedish)**

**_Vi maledicono - _****Curse you. (Italian)**

**_un ragazza stupida - a_ silly girl**

**Thanks to everyone who read, favourited, followed, reviewed, etc, and to Liandra2428, ****Guest, ****Anonymous, ****Guest, and ****Guest for their (wait for it) guest reviews. So sorry again about the itty bitty chapter, the next ones will be longer as we get closer to Don Juan. **

**Hugs to you all!**

**Tierney**


	49. Chapter 49

**Author's Note: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

49

The bride and the bridesmaids easily drew the most attention at the reception, Carlotta with her bright blue dress and dramatic red hair and aura of total bliss, the Italian cousins with their wide eyed beauty and beautiful white dresses, and Kayla, as the only non-Italian, and therefore the only blonde, in the wedding party. Which was really quite a detriment, since it seemed to draw Raoul's attention like moth to flame, and she couldn't exactly hide. Carlotta had intended that her bridesmaids would be just as pretty, though not as gaudy, as herself, and at least she could immerse herself in the crowd of the wedding party, out of earshot of the Vicomte. The bridesmaids were like white petals surrounding the bright blue flower that was Carlotta. Kayla tugged at her tapered ivory sleeves, the skirt swishing around her ankles. Her shoulders were completely exposed, and the neckline was fairly low; though it was the most modest, period accurate dress she had yet worn, Kayla had never felt more vulnerable. Whether it was because of the Vicomte's predatory stare or the presence of the stain-worthy glasses of wine was a moot point.

"You look so beautiful in your leetle white dress… like a leetle eengleesh Madonna."

"If the Vicomte tries cornering me one more time, this little English Madonna is going to go full Lucifer."

Carlotta chortled and took another swig of champagne, smacking her lips. "What is a woman without a leetle of the devil in 'er, no?" Kayla chuckled, clinking her glass against the diva's as Allegra proposed yet another toast. She had had three glasses already; she was more than a little lightheaded, but she could feel her confidence and poise improving – that would be useful if she had to deal with Raoul. Screw it. She drained her flute and swapped it for another from a passing waiter.

"Dere we go, leetle Abbots!" Delfina cheered, slinging her arm around Kayla's shoulders. "Our leetle proper manager es loosening up!"

"Loosening up? Del, I'm wound up tighter than a cannonball!" Another swig of champagne.

"Dat is what 'appens from 'aving to deal with da Vicomte ev'ry day," Carlotta mock whispered as she squeezed through the circle of girls to where her brand new husband was waiting. They all immediately burst into laughter.

"May I inquire as to what is so amusing, ladies?"

"Ah! Parla del diavolo, eccolo." Allegra winked at Kayla.

All the bridesmaids erupted into giggles. Kayla did not understand the full sentence, and knew better than to ask for a translation, but she caught a couple of words. The tone was perfectly clear.

"Naw, not really. Unless you speak Italian. Skrämde mig, du piccolo puttana." Though her companions did not understand the Swedish, they understood the Italian portion perfectly.

"You truly are talented, aren't you mademoiselle? I had no idea you spoke Italian. Would one of you beautiful women care to translate?"

"She says dat she thinks your coat woold look perfecto on 'er; it es perfectly fitted for a feminine form, after all."

Raoul imperceptibly bristled at Delfina's incorrect yet beautifully insulting translation. However, he brushed it off with a charismatic grin. "I was hoping I could borrow your beautiful companion for a…"

"Kayla, darling! There you are, I've been looking all over for you!" Enrico swept up from behind, planting a friendly kiss on the top of Kayla's head. To say Raoul was visibly irate was an understatement. "Ah, the Vicomte! A pleasure!" Enrico bowed gracefully, his arms sweeping out to the side in an elaborate fashion. "Please excuse us, we were going to join the dance. I'm sure such an influential man as you would have no problem at all finding a partner; there are scores of _molto belle_ French girls at this reception." Kayla smiled at the seamless switch from French to Italian, his accent perfect in both languages; he was clearly educated. As educated as a nobleman. Raoul raised his chin defiantly.

"Pray pardon, but I have already secured Mademoiselle Abbot's hand for this dance."

Kayla cocked her head to the side, narrowing her eyes. "I dunno if you're at the same party I am, 'cause there isn't a single universe in which I would've said yes to a dance with you."

Raoul ignored her. Again.

"Well la signorina appears to object, signore. The lady told me that she would like me to dance with her for the entire evening."

"It would be highly ill advised to reject a proposal to dance with a member of the Parisian aristocracy. Etiquette must not be ignored."

Draining her new full glass again, Kayla handed the empty flute to Allegra and stepped forward, poking Raoul in the chest with her index finger, hard. "I already refused one of those. Proposals, that is. Remember that, de Chagny?"

Raoul grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward, their faces inches apart. "That too was ill-advised, Kayla." His voice was deceptively sweet.

"Ehi! La signorina ha detto di no!" Enrico stepped up and shoved Raoul back. "Are you a gentleman or no?!"

Stumbling back, Raoul's head snapped up, blue eyes sparking. "How dare you?"

"I dare when a noble man has so little nobility as to lay a hand on a lady who does not wish it!" Anger thickening his accent, with his hands curled into fists, Enrico's fiery Italian nature rose to the surface.

"You have no right to –"

"The lady said _no_, signor!"

Delfina gasped. The rest of the bridesmaids had their hands over their mouths, eyes wide in disbelief.

"This is ridiculous… Kayla, come and dance with me!" Raoul grabbed Kayla's arm. Instinct took over, and before she even knew what had happened, she had punched him in the face.

"I said no, _bitch_."

"Mio dio!" Allegra swore, laughing so hard that tears were streaming down her cheeks. The rest of the bridesmaids applauded.

"Kayla, you are obviously not in your right mind. I'll take you outside, get some fresh air," Raoul said thickly, hand over his bleeding nose.

"_The lady said no_!"

Before anyone had even processed the snarl, Enrico leapt at the Vicomte, fists outstretched. The two men hit the floor, skidding over the marble tile, guests gasping and champagne glasses shattering as the fighters slid into the crowd.

Kayla stared after the combatants with a half-smile. "Okay, well, that's that," she slurred. "Come on, ladies, let's go do shots."

* * *

Kayla and the other bridesmaids sequestered themselves in the music room, the chatter and melodies from the reception floating down the halls of the Giudicelli mansion. Under the influence of numerous shots of some variety of delicious Italian liqueur, she had related the entire tale of Raoul's various pursuits. All of the bridesmaids were properly sympathetic, disgusted, and amused. "Poor leetle Daäe," Allegra sighed. "She deserves better dan dat awful man."

"I know right? Fricking vicomtes, man. Like, does the French aristocracy have nothing to do but chase after new girls?"

Cackling filled the room.

The door creaked open, and Enrico swaggered into the dimly lit room. "Ay keeled da leetle bastard," he croaked, his Italian accent far more pronounced than normal.

Kayla felt slightly alarmed. "I hope not, his fiancé ain't gonna be pleased with me if so."

"I did not kill 'im, just showed 'im 'is place." Enrico grinned at her, revealing blood on his teeth.

"Oh my god! What the hell did you do?"

"I might have bitten him." His voice began to return to its normal cadence.

Allegra shuddered. "You should go and wash your mouth out with soap, Enrico. Dat man es disgusting."

As he stepped further into the light, the extent of the Italian's injuries became more apparent. "Don't worry, he looks worse," he bluffed, answering the unspoken questions on the women's shocked faces. He had two black eyes, a long slice on his cheek, a bleeding nose, and crimson streaks on his temple.

"Oh, my hell, Enrico, you didn't need to do that," Kayla protested, stumbling as she pulled herself off the couch and dragged over the piano bench for the young man to sit on.

"It was my honour to defend such a beautiful lady." He winked, and Kayla blushed. "Technically I'm not supposed to be in the house, for appearance's sakes… the Vicomte was thrown out for his behaviour, and so was I, but the back door was open, and this is my cousin's house, the rules don't apply to me."

"I don't think that's the greatest philosophy, to be honest."

"Perhaps not. But the fop is gone, and the managers left with him, so Carlotta and Piangi can enjoy their reception in peace from those annoyances. Really, I did them a favour."

"Do you need a drink? We've got some of… this stuff, not sure what it is, but it's delish…"

"Of course, mademoiselle. I could always use a drink among such lovely company."

Hours later, Kayla checked her pocket watch and decided that the time had come to bow out. "It was lovely hanging with you peeps, but I better go. Rehearsals tomorrow, and all that. Y'all had better not come, the show's gonna be a disaster, trust me on that."

Allegra shrugged. "We are all going back to Italy anyway, we trust your senses. You 'ad better write, you silly girl!"

Hugs were exchanged all around, papers thrust into her hands containing addresses to which she would probably never write. A sense of finality settled over her. Turning to Enrico, she threw her arms around his neck. "I'm'a miss you, Enrico. It was… totally awesome."

His arms wrapped tightly around her waist, his chin resting on the top of her blonde head. "You could come with me, you know. To Italy. It would be a good way to escape the fop."

"I can't. I'd love to, but I can't. I've got friends counting on me to get this opera done. I can't let them down. But I'd love to."

He sighed. "It was worth a try. You could always come and visit after the opera is over."

"I wish. I'm… I'm supposed to be going back to Canada after this is all over." The lie stabbed through her stomach; she felt guilty, lying to him. But it was better than telling him the truth. Shaking off the feeling, Kayla laughed. "You go to Italy, find yourself a beautiful girl, get married, and have a shit-ton of adorable babies. Live your life, bae."

Enrico smiled against her hair. "And you live yours, Kayla. Write if you can."

"I will."

She knew she wouldn't.

When she re-emerged from the music room and ventured back into the main hall, she said her congratulations and goodbyes. Carlotta seemed very amused by Kayla's inebriation, and sent her off in one of the Giudicelli carriages.

It was very kind of the diva, Kayla reflected dizzily as she unlocked the stage door of the Populaire and slipped inside, waving goodbye to the driver. Locking the door behind her, she stumbled into the opera house, giggling to herself.

No matter how sad she was about the coming end, the image of Enrico and Raoul sliding across the marble floor like pissed off penguins would keep her laughing for days.

* * *

Erik stared at the organ keys, his hands resting, unmoving, on his lap. His masterpiece was finished, his score safe and sound in the maestro's office, the script and stage directions locked away in Antoinette's, and his set book was with his little magician. It was paradoxically soothing and anxiety inducing. He felt a strange lack of control over his own creation.

His musings were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on stone, and Mademoiselle Abbots – Kayla, rather; he had yet to adapt to her wish to be referred to by her first name – swept carelessly into the lair. Her gait was slow, her body swaying back and forth as if navigating the deck of a ship.

"Kayla? Are you all right?"

She giggled. "I'm just fabulous, darling. Where's that whiskey you wouldn't let me finish last week? I need a drink."

Erik carefully avoided even a glance in the direction of the trunk in which he had hidden the liquor after Kayla's last attempt at a "drinking contest". "It looks like you've had quite enough."

The stage manager shrugged. "Probably." She plopped into the chair by the designated art desk, slouching down until she could rest her head on the chair back. "I'm soooooo tireeedddd…"

"Why have you not returned to the dormitory then?"

"Because I had something I really wanted to tell you… oh, yes! I wanted to say I'm really happy you decided you aren't gonna kill Piangi, because they make a ridiculously adorable couple. Their wedding was today, and it was so bloody cute, you should've been there…"

He noticed abruptly that it was Kayla who was dressed like a bride, draped in white silk and lace, long folds of skirt swishing over the stone.

"… and it was fricking awesome and the food was great and her cousins are the freaking bomb and everything was awesome except for when Enrico fought Raoul… no, that was awesome too, never mind…"

"The cousin from Carlotta's parties whom you babbled on and on about? He fought the fop?"

"And got the bastard kicked outta the reception, hell yeah he did! But I got to punch Raoul first, so that was awesome…"

"Kayla…"

The girl was not paying attention, fingers tugging at her braid as she started singing to herself. He didn't recognize the tune, but he caught a number of the words.

"_Hazel eyes, I was so color blind_

_We were just wasting time_

_For my whole life_

_We never crossed the line_

_Only friends in my mind_

_But now I realized_

_It was always you..._"

"Kayla!"

"Huh? Oh, and I'm so sorry that Raoul freaking hates you, like, he's never even met you and he's just such a prick, and I'm going to knee him in the nuts next time I see 'im…"

She was slurring her words and stumbling over phrases; it was blatantly obvious that she had had far too much to drink. With a flare of shock, he noticed her dark blue eyes tearing up.

"Kayla, what…"

Before he could get the rest of his inquiry out, she started bawling.

"I-I-I don't kn-kn-know what's gon-gonna ha-happen and it's just so sad and oh hell…" Her words were garbled and twisted with sobs.

Against every instinct in his mind that was telling him that he was better off alone, Erik dragged a chair over to his little magician and sat down next to her. "Kayla, breathe. What are you going on about?"

"Ugh, I'm gonna disappear off of-of th-th-the bloody planet and I-I don't kn-kn-know where I'm gonna g-go or where y-you're gonna go and I just want to kn-kn-know what happens after the – shit, spoilers – I ju-just w-want you t-to b-be happy and – holy shit, this is just too meta, what am I gonna doooo…"

He could not understand a word she was saying. At any rate, drunk Kayla certainly seemed to have a lot of emotions. So he did the only thing he could; sat next to her, listened to her sob and rant and stutter, and steadfastly refused to get her a drink.

"I'm-I'm t-too sober for this!" Kayla wailed.

"If you were in possession of stronger self-control, we would not be having this problem. I am taking the role of your self-control this evening."

"Oh whyyy, meta, meta, meta…"

"Kayla."

"…meta, meta, meta…."

"Kayla, you need to calm down. It is four 'o'clock in the morning. You have rehearsals at ten 'o'clock. You need rest."

Kayla sniffled. "I'm really drunk, aren't I?"

"Yes. Yes you are."

"I don't remember the way to the dorm."

"Of course you don't."

Erik half-supported, half-carried his intoxicated little magician through the tunnels to the dormitory. The rest of the ballerinas, exhausted from a hard day of rehearsals, did not even stir when the mirror slid open. Sliding around the cots, he set Kayla down in her own bed. Without even a warning movement, Kayla sat up and slung her arms around his neck. He barely avoided violently jerking backwards. "Thanks… sorry you had to see that… I'm'a regret this tomorrow…" She patted the top of his head, drew back, and curled up, head buried in her pillow.

Erik stood in silent shock for a moment before he regained his senses and glided back through the mirror. She was drunk. It was her way. The sudden physical affection did not mean anything.

All that mattered was Christine.

At least that was what he told himself.

* * *

**Author's Note: Hey! Sudden resurgence in creativity, and this chapter is, as promised, longer. I recently got informed of a fanfiction novel contest on Inkkit, and as I'd really like to enter, I'm going to be writing like crazy to try to make the deadline. Which means that updates might be faster. Emphasis on might. **

**As far as translations go, here they are: **

**Ah! Parla del diavolo, eccolo - Ah! Speak of the devil, here he is. (Italian)**

**Skrämde mig, du piccolo puttana -** **Screw you, you little bitch.**

**molto belle - Very beautiful**

**Ehi! La signorina ha detto di no! - Hey! The lady said no!**

**Thanks so much to everyone who's read, followed, favourited, etc, and to Anonymous, Liandra2428, and Guest for their - wait for it - guest reviews. **

**On a completely different note, I'm thinking of writing a longer fic about muggleborns at Hogwarts who want to do sports besides Quidditch... any interest? Let me know!**

**I love you all, thanks for your support. **

**Hugs,**

**Tierney**


	50. Chapter 50

**Author's Note: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera**

* * *

50

The next morning, Kayla was greeted with a pounding headache, eyes that steadfastly refused to open, and eardrums grated by the loud chatter of the ballerinas getting ready for a day of rehearsal. She groaned and buried her face under the quilt. Her throat was sore, her head was pounding, and every bone was aching. She must have really let loose last night…

She vaguely remembered being carried by Erik. Maybe that was a dream. Hopefully the meltdown she foggily recalled having was as well.

"Kayla." A hand shook her shoulder. "Full dress rehearsal, you need to get up."

Kayla made a noise of absolute disgust and squirmed deeper beneath her blankets. "This is not like you at all, Kayla; are you feeling all right?"

"Just peachy. It's only Satan using my head as a piñata."

"Pardon?"

"Meg, could you maybe not shout?"

"I'm not shouting."

"Babes, you have to whisper. I'm pretty sure I'm hungover."

"Pretty sure?"

"Don't give me that look, I don't have enough experience with being this drunk to tell."

"La Carlotta threw an excellent wedding, then?"

"It was the freaking best. You should have been there, it was fabulous. Except for drunken Raoul. That was decidedly less fabulous."

"Le Vicomte got drunk?"

"Man, he was wasted," Kayla said, shaking he head as she army rolled out of her bed and onto the floor. "It wasn't pretty. I should probably talk to Christine about that, shouldn't I?"

Meg looked conflicted. "I suppose… I would not want Christine to be hurt in any way."

"Agreed."

* * *

"What do you mean, 'Raoul was wasted'? Was he hurt?"

Christine's doe brown eyes were troubled, stage light glinting off her glossy brown curls as she stood with Kayla in the wings. Kayla crossed her arms, eyes narrowed as she tried to sort out the numerous explanations swirling through her head. She sighed. "He was really, really drunk last night, Christine. He tried to fight one of Carlotta's cousins and he actually got kicked out of the reception. I just thought you should know."

"Raoul would never do anything like that, he's so kind."

"Alcohol removes inhibitions, Christine. If that's his behaviour when he's at his least inhibited, what else is he capable of? I don't want you to get hurt."

Christine looked away, staring at the ground. "Why did he fight?"

"He – it doesn't matter, actually. What matters is that he got violent, and I wanted you to know about it."

"But he told me that the reception was lovely. He wouldn't lie to me."

"The reception _was_ lovely, but he was not. It's not technically a lie, but he _is_ omitting certain truths in order to manipulate you."

Christine's shoulders slumped.

"Aw, baby, don't be upset." Kayla looped her arm over the young soprano's shoulders and hugged her. "He's a little boy, and boys at his age are not known for their intelligence."

"But he is over twenty years of age!"

"Honey, I'm twenty, at most he's a year older than me. Trust me, I interacted with a lot of men his age at university, and they are not the epitome of class and sophistication."

Christine cracked a small smile at Kayla's joking tone.

"There, that's it! There's happy Daäe! I wouldn't worry too much about it, but be careful, 'kay? Don't dive into something… rash… without having all the information."

Christine buried into the older girl's side. "Thank you, Kayla."

"No problem. I'd advise talking to him though. Tell me what he says, I can vouch for you if he gives you any sh – I mean, if he tries to deny it."

As the younger woman's head snapped up, Kayla watched as the brunette's eyes zeroed in on the Vicomte as he walked down the aisle of the auditorium. "Hey, asshat! This is private rehearsal, no spectators! Christine, would you take your fiancé outside, please?"

Christine's eyes narrowed determinedly. "Certainly."

She hopped down the ledge of the stage and stomped towards her fiancé, who had the decency to look slightly guilty. Grabbing the man's arm, the little soprano pulled him towards the door, her audibly furious whispers carrying back to the completely silent stage. As the door shut behind the couple, Jamie leaned out over the edge of the catwalk. "Well, that escalated quickly."

"Leetle Daäe es not as much of a leetle mouse as I thought," Carlotta shrugged, tossing her head.

There was an explosion of laughter that only died down at Maestro Reyer's furious insistence that they return to rehearsal. And hidden in Box Five, a spectre smiled.

* * *

Kayla woke up a week before the premiere of Don Juan and realized that it was her birthday. She was twenty one. She had reached legal British Columbian drinking age in 1870's France. It was surreal.

The surreal peace was not to last.

Shouting came from downstairs. "We're not supposed to have rehearsal today, shut up, everyone," she muttered. Throwing back her covers, she threw on a cardigan and stormed out of the door, glowering at the sight of the ballet rats rubbing their eyes. Even though the youngest corps members were not performing in the opera, Madame Giry had been working all of the dancers as hard as possible, and everyone was exhausted. They needed sleep, not someone making a racket on one of their few days off.

Kayla threw open the door and strode over to the balcony railing, peering down at the stage. Through gaps in the set pieces, she could see Raoul and the managers walking purposefully through the backstage.

"_We have all been blind_…"

Oh shit. The final stretch had begun.

"… _and yet the answer is staring us in the face; this could be the chance to ensnare our clever friend_…"

"_We're listening_," Andre sang.

"_Go on_," added Firmin.

"_We shall play his game, perform his work, but remember we hold the ace. For, if Miss Daäe sings, he is certain to attend…"_

"_We make certain the doors are barred…"_

"_We make certain the police are there…"_

"_We make certain they are armed."_

"_The curtain falls, his reign will end_!"

"Hey!"

The three men looked up at the girl in white leaning over the railing. "Would you people shut up?! No one cares if you're trying to catch the opera ghost, we all need our sleep! As the three people who are literally doing _zero_ work in this opera, might I suggest that yOU SHUT THE HELL UP?!"

The men stared, open mouthed, at the furious creature as she swept away with a swish of her white nightgown. "Happy birthday to me," she muttered angrily.

And not another disturbance occurred that day.

* * *

"So I heard from Meg that you had a birthday yesterday," Jamie remarked as he and Kayla lifted the large gaslights they were using to simulate fire onto the centre of the stage.

"Yeah, I guess I did. It's a little hard focusing on being a year older when you've got a phantom and a fop both breathing down the back of your neck. Goodness, this is heavy."

"And you didn't think about telling your loyal crew about that particular fact?"

"About how this gaslight is freaking heavy? No, I thought you knew."

"I'm talking about your birthday, you idiot."

"And I'm talking about the opera we're supposed to be prepping for, ass. I don't have time for birthdays."

"We'll make time. After this is all over, we'll go to a pub. You haven't been to a proper French pub yet. You, me, the crew, and the best ale in Paris. Deal?"

A twinge pulsed through Kayla's heart, but she merely smiled. "Deal."

* * *

Three days before the premiere date, everything was ready. The stage was perfectly set, all pieces built and in place, ready for the performance. The orchestra was thoroughly rehearsed, the choreography stunning, and the cast was pulling out their best work since Hannibal six months before. Even the composer seemed to think that everything was ready.

Everything, except, of course, Christine.

The soprano panicked every single day about one thing or another, and judging by the whispers from the cast and the ballet corps, even La Carlotta herself was easier to deal with than the talented Miss Daäe. She panicked about her costume fittings, she panicked whenever she made the slightest mistake in a song, she panicked during every rehearsal, and she panicked at any allusion at all concerning the Opera Ghost. The feisty determination that had impressed everyone in the weeks before vanished under a mountain of nerves. She did not have the spunk to scold the patron now.

Kayla was almost always called in. The cast and crew alike seemed enthralled with the idea of their young, eccentric stage hand being their shining knight, taking charge and standing against the devilish patron. They seemed to think she was the only one that could be trusted to care completely and utterly about the people working in the Populaire, not the profit or the patrons or the spectators.

Christine trusted Kayla. She and Meg were the only ones who could calm the young primadonna down during a panic, the only ones who could coax her back into a rehearsal, and the only two whom Christine absolutely insisted on being extremely close by at all times. Generally she begged for them to stay in the wings while she was onstage, which the two girls tried to accommodate, switching quickly between their duties and their post, running through the backstage and dressing rooms like they were being chased by wolves. Kayla, sprinting as she tried to make it downstairs by Christine's next scene, almost inadvertently hurled herself off the catwalk on six separate occasions. But as long as it helped Christine keep rehearsing, it seemed worth it.

"I appreciate your attention to Mademoiselle Daäe," Erik commented quietly. Kayla was sitting in Box Five, watching as the chorus rehearsed the finale. Everyone else had already been dismissed, but Maestro Reyer was insistent that the chorus still needed work.

"I appreciate Reyer's perfectionism, my goodness. Aw, look at that, he's yelling at them. He's so cute."

There was a snort from the hollow column in the corner. "You are ignoring me, mademoiselle."

"I'm listening, I'm listening. Chill."

"I truly do appreciate your attention to Ms. Daäe. There would be no opera without her."

Swiveling around in her seat, Kayla shot a glare at the column. "There'd be no opera without any of these people, Erik. Sorry, but this is not just about Christine."

There was a moment of silence. "I understand your position. But you are omniscient, you know what all of this is for."

Huffing, Kayla slumped in the red velvet chair that she had begun this journey in. "I get it, but it's incorrect. This is well beyond a love story from where I'm standing."

Erik was silent for so long that Kayla thought maybe he had left. "Of course this is well beyond anything you have seen. This is my masterpiece. This is my universe."

Kayla massaged her temples with her fingertips. "This is way too meta for me now. Meta, meta, meta."

Erik laughed. "You are echoing, Kayla."

"Oh, shit. Dammit, Erik, I thought that was a dream."

"It was not, which was amusing for me."

"I've had, like, two weeks of blissful ignorance of the fact that I completely embarrassed myself, and you ruined it, Erik. You ruined it."

"I apologize for the inconvenience."

"But I digress. Isn't there anything else in your universe? Anything at all? There's got to be more to your life than opera."

She heard him shift from within the wall. "I have lived nowhere but here, mademoiselle. I have done nothing but as a ghost, created nothing more worthy than my masterpiece. If this is my life and after this I vanish, so it must be."

"I feel like that's a flawed philosophy, my small cinnamon roll."

"I am a man of flaws, Kayla. Why should my philosophy be any different?"

"Because we're all flawed. It's kind of a thing."

Erik chuckled. "There are those without flaw."

Kayla groaned. "I give up. I cannot waste my life explaining this shit to you." She leant out over the edge of the box, grinning as she watched Reyer shriek at an unfortunate tenor. "But _Don Juan_'s coming along, eh?"

"So it would seem."

"Aw, you can't fool me, you think we're doing well."

"There are only certain people who are meeting my standards, but it will have to suffice. You, Ms. Giry, and Ms. Daäe: the only three with whom I have no concerns whatsoever."

"If you're trying to argue 'without flaw' again, I swear I will come in there and fight you."

"You are more than welcome to try."

* * *

_Things we lost to the flames, _

_Things we'll never see again…_

Kayla stared out over the empty theatre, her gaze flickering periodically up to the still magnificence of the crystal chandelier. The _Don Juan_ theme had been looping over and over in her head the entire day, and she had – inconveniently enough – taken the period just after two 'o'clock in the morning to try to calm her nerves. Thus, the risky presence of her miraculous phone in her back pocket, earbuds looped, incognito, under her shirt, and Bastille crooning in her ears.

_All that we have amassed_

_Sits before us, shattered into ash_

_ These are the things, the thing we lost_

_ The things we lost in the fire, fire, fire…_

The final dress rehearsal was the next morning.

_Don Juan Triumphant_ premiered in two days. Well, tomorrow, technically.

The suddenness of it all was unsettling. Had she really been here since the end of September? She'd turned 21 in 1871, found a new best friend, worked in a renowned theatre and headed her own department – she felt accomplished. At the same time she knew that the accomplishment was going to be ripped away in a day, one way or another. It felt too final to be real, and yet all too real to be final. It was paradoxical and it made no sense. Kayla bent over and rested her head on the edge of the second balcony, shutting her eyes. She was too tired for this.

_I was the match and you were the rock_

_Maybe we started this fire_

_We sat apart and watched_

_All we had burned on the pyre…_

"You need your rest, little magician."

The voice came from the lurking shadows. Kayla turned to face the dark, pulling an earbud out of her ear so as to better hear the ghost.

"You've never called me that before. Why start now?"

Now the voice was right next to her ear. "You come from another world. You know the future. You helped a ghost to realize a dream years upon years in the making."

"I don't know the future anymore." It was only partially true. "I'm not magic, Erik."

_Do you understand that we will never be the same again?_

Laughter echoed around her. "You move between heaven and hell, comforting the angels and abetting the devil, living in both realms and yet in none."

"Have you been drinking?"

He laughed again.

"That's not an answer."

"I have something for you," he murmured, completely ignoring her. Something nudged her feet, and she jumped. There was a bundle by the toe of her foot. Bending down, she picked it up and unfolded it. It was a vest, black, covered with a shimmering garden of delicate red embroidery and fastened with gold buttons. There was also a shirt, a black button up, silky and far more feminine than the clothes she was used to working in these days.

"Did you do the embroidery yourself?"

"Is that your main concern after I have given you a gift?"

"It's an honest question! Nothing wrong with dudes doing embroidery!"

He snorted.

"Well, thank you… What is it for?"

"You will wear it during the Opera. You will blend in perfectly with the actors, just in case you need to… intervene."

Flames and a shattering chandelier flashed before her eyes. "I hope it doesn't come to that."

"You are working with the devil. Anything is possible. Unless, of course, you are completely on the side of the angels."

"I may be on the side of the angels but don't think for a second that I am one of them."

"Of course not. You are the magician. You shelter both and yet are neither."

"This is paradoxically weird. I'm way too tired for paradoxes."

This time, Erik's laugh seemed more genuine; happier, almost. "You need your rest, Kayla. I will take my leave."

"Wait! Can I hug you? You just gave me a present, and I feel the need to express my affection for my little opera ghostie!"

There was a long moment of silence.

"We seem to be having these awkward silences a lot lately."

He still did not respond.

"I'm sorry, that was stupid, I'll just go to bed…"

"Wait…"

His protestation was uncharacteristically soft. Kayla stopped mid-step, looking back as the tall dark shape melted out of the dark. Their gazes met.

"Is that a yes?"

He nodded, barely noticeable through the dark. Kayla stepped forward, hesitating slightly. "Feel free to… shove me away. Or something." He nodded again.

And then Kayla hugged the Phantom.

He was really tall. That was the most noticeable thing. He was muscular beneath the cloak; he did not appear to be wearing his multiple jackets today. And he was warm. Very warm. His arms moved around her shoulders very gingerly, resting gently on her back. Kayla kept her arms wrapped around his waist for a moment longer, then squeezed and let go, stepping back and trying to keep her face friendly and impassive. "You're a pretty good hugger considering your dislike of physical affection," she joked, keeping her voice light. Erik's lips curled from beneath the mask.

"I appreciate the compliment, Kayla. Now off to bed with you, there is still much work to be done."

She nodded, smiled, and waved before turning and heading off to the dorm. When she snuck a glance back a moment later, the opera ghost was nowhere to be seen. A bubble of glee rose inside of her chest. She tried to quash it, but the steady pulse of joy refused to be quenched. Kayla frowned to herself. "If what I think is happening, is happening: it better not be," she muttered. Pulling open the door to the dormitory, she slipped inside, the final lyrics ringing softly in her ears. Now was not the time to start developing feelings. The whole world she had built up for herself here would be gone in twenty four hours, replaced with whatever it was that came after; home, Calgary, school, or maybe something else entirely. She was too tired to try to consider what it would be like to be back home. Despite her fierce scolding of her own thoughts, she drifted off to sleep with the memory of Erik's arms around her.

_Flames – they licked the walls…_

_Tenderly they turned to dust all that I adore…_

* * *

**Author's Note: We're coming up on the end. I'm trying not to rush it, but to be honest I still want to make the contest deadline. But I'm posting more regularly lately! But 50 chapters... feels like a milestone. Its kind of nice to feel like I'm making a lot of progress on this story despite my crazy schedule... I was up past 1am last night trying to finish up this chapter and a paper for my Greek history class. So that was fun. **

**Thanks to everyone who read, followed, favourited, reviewed, etc. etc. and to Guest, Liandra2428, and sherlollyshipper for their guest reviews, and to mytumblr2016 for the follows, since I can't PM those readers. **

**I love you all, thanks for sticking with me for this long. Hugs for you all!**

**Love, Tierney**


	51. Chapter 51

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of The Opera. Nor do I own One Love by Marianas Trench.**

* * *

51

"We've changed our minds," Jamie said firmly, pulling Kayla towards the balcony as the final rehearsal of Act Three came to a close on the stage below. "You totally glossed over the fact that you turned twenty one, and I and the crew have taken it upon ourselves to rectify your incompetence in this matter."

Kayla, focused on the distant screeches of Reyer from the orchestra pit, took a moment to process Jamie's declaration. "Sorry, what?"

"You, Abbots, are an idiot if you think that we're just going to let your birthday pass without any formal recognition of this momentous occasion." Jamie's voice took on a pretentious sort of tone, almost as if he was channelling Raoul. The corner of Kayla's mouth twitched.

"I'm pretty sure that's some sort of slander, Blanchard."

"What? Acting like a certain nobleman?"

"Yes, exactly. I don't care though, go ahead."

"I feel like we've gotten wildly off topic… We're taking you out to a pub tonight; one final, responsible hurrah before the hardest opera we've ever done."

Kayla sighed and glanced down at the stage, where Carlotta and Piangi were walking into the wings arm in arm. On one hand, she was exhausted, emotionally and physically drained from all the work and stress, and going to bed early would be the most responsible decision. On other, this could be the last time she ever got to sit down with the boys under her command. "Not too late, I hope?"

Jamie looked affronted. "Nay, my lady. We'll be very responsible, let me assure you. It's not a dream of ours to get punjabbed."

Kayla snorted. "All right then. As long as we're ready for tomorrow."

"I have every confidence in our prowess as mature adults."

"Really? I don't."

Jamie gently punched her shoulder, and Kayla smiled.

* * *

A crowd of bundled up figures poured over the front steps of the Populaire as the light of the sunset completely disappeared under a blanket of inky black. The chill had yet to recede in favour of springtime warmth, and it was still quite cold at night. Kayla had her blue cloak wrapped around her, over her work clothes, a cardigan, and a sweater she had stolen from Clemens. She was surrounded by boys; once the cavaliers had caught wind of Jamie's plan and the occasion which had prompted it, the senior dancers had decided to tag along.

"The good thing about this place," Jamie proclaimed, taking Kayla's arm as they strolled down the gas-lit boulevard further into the city, "is that it's just fancy enough that the criminals don't hang out here, but just dingy enough that none of the upper class would be caught dead in such a place."

Kayla grinned at him. "Perfect."

A great fire crackled in sparks of red and gold in the giant fireplace at one end of the long room, producing long shadows that stretched out in inky black next to strips of orange light.

_These are the things we lost in the fire, fire, fire…_

A hand nudged her shoulder. "Drink up, Abbots, they say happy birthday for a reason," Clemens encouraged, holding out a foaming mug. Smiling, she grabbed the handle and took a swig, watching Jamie and the others pulling out benches and stools with uncaring clatters.

"A toast!" Avère called, standing on his stool and raising his flagon. "To brotherhood, to good beer, to a year well spent, and to the best stage manager to grace the Populaire! To Abbots!"

"To Abbots!"

The roar of the fire and the echo of voices around the hall was simultaneously joyful and grim, like a feast following one of the grand battles of Norse myth. Kayla raised her glass and drank.

"You've finally got all the choreography sorted, then?" Xavier leant across the table towards Leonardo.

The dark haired dancer leant back in his seat, his smile broad and relaxed. "I've got to say, with all respect the Madame, the choreography was a bitch to learn."

There was a chorus of agreeing laughter, the boys around the table clapping and hooting with approval. "It's the most complicated movements I've ever done, but I get to dance with Gaelle, I'm not going to complain," Avère added smugly as he clambered back down into his seat.

"Melting the heart of the ice queen, well done Avère!" Rene whooped, slapping the taller man on the shoulder.

"Enough, enough about the ballerinas, this night is about Kayla," Jamie teased.

"I thought it was a celebration of one last night before we all go up in flames!"

"No one's going to go up in flames, calm down Maurice…"

"We are taking orders from le fantôme, Gaston, anything could happen…"

Kayla took another gulp of beer and slammed her glass onto the table. "I've had enough Phantom to last me two thousand years, someone change the subject!"

There was a moment of silence.

"Do you remember when we had to save Abbots from the police?"

"What? No, was that just the crew? Where the hell were we?"

"Oh my god, Jamie…"

And with that, the conversation leapt into safer waters.

* * *

Hours later, almost everyone present was teetering on the edge of wasted. Kayla herself was feeling ridiculously tipsy, though she had pushed her mug away before she ventured once more into the territory she had explored at Carlotta's wedding reception.

"Okay, okay, okay, but if it came down to it…" Jamie paused as he threw back the remainder of his beer. "Would you rather marry the Phantom or the Vicomte? Hypothetically, of course."

"The Vicomte, obviously. He's got the finest ass I've ever seen, even if he's got the intelligence of a brick wall," said Dennis, taking a delicate sip of his drink. Baptiste snorted so hard that foam came out of his nose.

"But apparently the Phantom can freaking sing!" Clemens argued, gesturing violently with his mug. Kayla grinned. It was nice to see them arguing over something that was not her, as it had been at the beginning of October. They seemed to have grown up quite a bit since then. "Voice beats ass any day. I may love girls more than the managers love money, but I know that much."

"Abbots? What's your verdict?" Leonardo shoved Kayla with his shoulder, chuckling.

"I don't think either choice would result in a super healthy relationship." There were groans at her pronouncement.

"That's not the point, the point is hypothetically, which would you rather spend the rest of your life with?" The boys leaned eagerly towards her.

"For heaven's sakes, Abbots, I just admitted that I think the patron has an excellent ass," Dennis snapped teasingly. "I don't think you can shock us any further."

Kayla resisted the urge to chug her beer to stave off the question for a little longer. She took a deep breath and smiled. "I've got a fatal flaw of being into dark, musical, and mysterious – "

"So Leonardo, then."

"- so I've got to say Phantom. Marriage to the Vicomte would end in one of our murders; we'd argue each other to death."

"So besides the call of mystery, why else would you go for the Opera Ghost?"

Kayla threw piece of bread at Xavier's head, but Jamie dove across his fellow crew member and caught the bread in his mouth. "Shut up, Xavier! None of the others got this much grilling!"

"You're the only girl here, it's an experiment. We want to know what the ladies look for in a man," Xavier grinned. Baptiste stood up, walked around the table, and slapped Xavier in the back of the head before returning to his seat. "Ow, _sacre bleu_, Baptiste?!"

"Abbots is not a cheat sheet, she's our boss." Baptiste accepted Jamie and Marius's high-fives as he sat down, smirking at Xavier.

The crew and cavaliers applauded.

"Thanks, Baptiste."

Baptiste blushed and sunk down in his seat.

"I still think Abbots should answer the question," Xavier protested, rubbing the back of his head. "Dennis did."

"Dennis is sitting right here, and he stands by the fact that de Chagny would look excellent hanging off my arm," Dennis remarked mildly. Rene started choking, and Avère smacked him on the back.

Kayla rolled her eyes, sighing exaggeratedly. "Ugh, why do I put up with y'all?"

"Because we can lift the heavy things?" Clemens suggested.

Kayla nodded. "You make an excellent point there. It'd be a bit hard to build a spiral staircase all by myself."

"Oh, for god's sakes don't mention the bloody staircase," Marius moaned, slamming his head against the table. "I'm emotionally traumatized by that experience."

Xavier banged his mug against the tabletop. "We're missing the point! Abbots, why the Phantom?"

That was the whole question. Why the Opera Ghost? Why the Phantom of the Opera? Why had she been willing to stay in an unfamiliar world for months, a world that she did not know as well as her little sister did, and yet thrive? Why hadn't she tried to leave?

"I think… everyone's got a past. A dark side. Something they want to hide. It's in human nature. And even though I don't agree with all of his actions, surely there's something behind that, and he obviously has a lot to offer the world. Like, what do you think of his opera?"

Avère frowned thoughtfully. "It's wildly inappropriate and incredibly dark." His face broke out into a sudden grin. "It's gorgeous. I love it."

There were cheers of approval from the rest of the table.

"Exactly! There's something deeper there, this isn't just a spectre. There's a man behind the mask with a story to offer the world. I'd love an opportunity to get inside his head a little. Plus," she added jokingly. "I like a man in a cape."

"Amen," said Dennis.

* * *

The stars were brighter than ever as the group wandered, some stumbling, others walking arm in arm, back up the boulevard towards the Populaire. Despite the late hour, the outside of the Populaire glowed under the flickering gaslights, gold and marble shining in the light. "It's beautiful," Jamie murmured, arm hooked around Kayla's shoulders as they walked. "I'm lucky, really, to live here."

"I might not be living here after tomorrow."

Jamie stopped short and looked at her. "What? Why?"

"I just have a bad feeling about how tomorrow night is going to go down… I'm going to have a meeting with everyone before the opera, but do you promise to make sure everyone listens to me?"

"Abbots, you're scaring me."

"You don't need to be scared. But do you promise?"

Jamie nodded sharply. "I promise."

Kayla smiled sleepily and let her head drop onto his shoulder. "You need to go ask Meg out, kay? Do that for me, too."

"My uncle wants me to come back home and live with him," Jamie murmured. "If I do, I think I might ask Meg to come with me. To marry me."

Kayla immediately perked up, punching him excitedly in the shoulder. "Yes yes yes! Go for it! Do it! But don't be an asshole, listen to her if she says no."

"Don't worry, I think I've gathered what not to do from watching the Vicomte."

"Who's your uncle?"

Jamie ducked his head. "I ran away when I was about ten, got into the set crew at the Populaire purely because I was strong for my age and I was pretty smart. My uncle knew, he helped me, actually. My parents didn't really listen to me, and they didn't particularly care, and they died a couple years later. So my uncle adopted me, but he let me stay on at the Populaire, purely because I loved it. But I'm going to turn twenty one in a couple of months, and my uncle thinks I had better at least come and live with him, even if I do stay on and work at the opera."

"But who is he?'

"Baron Christophe Blanchard. He's my dad's brother, and he inherited his title because I was so young."

Kayla's eyes widened. "Meg marries a baron. This is so book meta."

"What?"

"Nothing, Jamie, don't worry about it. I just think you should go ahead and propose, just in case. But make sure it's romantic, Meg is too sweet for it to be anything else."

Jamie grinned. "An unromantic proposal would be impossible."

"But go ahead and go for it. I've got a good feeling about this."

* * *

"_I wake up tonight, feeling paper thin and I'm paper white_

_You say, "Just come back to bed"_

_Voice sounds strange, but I soon forget…"_

Kayla stood in the centre of the stage, swaying slightly to the tune in her head as she sang to the boys sitting in the dark seats. There was something intoxicating about the dark stage, the red paint and dark wood which would become a masterpiece tomorrow night – or tonight, rather. It was past midnight, but Kayla was drunk enough that it had taken very little prodding from the boys to get her to sing for them, one last time.

"_And your sad blue eyes, like mine_

_Full of pity now, but I don't know why_

_The light dims without regret_

_'Til now you're nothing more than a silhouette_…"

She glanced up at Box Five as the curtain shifted slightly, a shadow moving through the dark. She smiled.

"_But just hold quick, you're fading right_

_In a cold trick of the light_

_I'm just so sick, I thought you might be here_

_But you di-disappear…_

_Now I wake up and I forget that you were gone_

_A phantom limb is all that I am hanging on_

_So don't stop, no stopping it yet_

_What if the one true love's the only one that you get?"_

Erik stared down from Box Five, trusting the darkness to hide him from the crowd of boys sitting in the theatre below. Judging by the twinkle in Kayla's deep blue eyes, he could not hide from her.

"_And you've been wishing but you don't know how to stay_

_And I've been broken but I'm better every day_

_So don't stop, no stoppin' it yet_

_What if the one true love's the only one that you get?_

_One love, one love, one love you get_

_One love, one love, one love you get_

_One love, one love, one love you get_

_One love, one love, one love you get_…"

Tears were prickling at the back of Kayla's eyes. How was she going to let all of this go? She loved these boys, she loved her job, she loved the building, and she loved…

She cut off that train of thought. Despair would not going to help anything.

"_Lost and gone so fast_

_You get me every time_

_But I live with that_

_I might do this to myself_

_Only made it worse but I just can't help_

_You know I get so attached_

_Listen everyday 'til the dark is back_

_Now I pine for phantom pain_

_It's the only time that I see your face_

_So just hold quick you're fading right_

_In a cold trick of the light_

_I'm just so sick, I thought you might be here_

_But you di-disappear_…"

Kayla was not the most beautiful singer he had ever heard, nor the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. But there was something about her, something that had not been there when he first met her. The little girl had grown up into a magician, and her art had changed her… On stage, she was swaying, eyes shut and singing with abandon, her voice, more alto than soprano, husky and relaxed, was, in the moment, the most joyful and most despairing thing the Phantom had ever heard.

"_Now I wake up and I forget that you were gone_

_A phantom limb is all that I am hanging on_

_So don't stop, no stopping yet_

_What if the one true love's the only one that you get?_

_And you've been wishing but you don't know how to stay_

_And I've been broken but I'm better every day_

_So don't stop, no stoppin' it yet_

_What if the one true love's the only one that you get_?

_One love, one love, one love you get_

_One love, one love, one love you get_

_One love, one love, one love you get_

_One love, one love, one love you get…_

_What if you still feel me too, still?_

_What if there was still a way of taking care of this_?"

Kayla's voice trailed off as she walked towards the front of the stage, clumsily sitting down on the edge of the opera pit, watching the boys in their velvet seats, watching her proudly. Her voice quieted, taking on a wistful tone.

"_What if I wake up tonight and you are real?_

_What if we could find a way to try to heal?_

_What if there's no stoppin' us yet?_

_What if the one true love's the only one that you get?_

_What if there was still a reason not to go?_

_What if there was still a little bit of hope?_"

Hope and hopelessness; a sense of irony gripped Erik as he listened to the magician's song. Tomorrow was the end, and judging by the single tear glistening down Kayla's cheek, it was an end for her too.

"_So don't stop, no stoppin it yet_

_What if the one true love's the only one that you get? _

_One love, one love you get_

_One love, one love you get_

_One love, one love, one love you get_

_One love, one love, one love you get_

_One love, one love you get_

_One love, one love you get_

_One love, one love, one love you get _

_One love, one love, one love you get…"_

The crew and cavaliers burst into applause as Kayla's voice trailed into silence. "Well! I may be too drunk to remember that properly in the morning, and I hate to sound like a lowbrow twit, but that was far more beautiful than an opera!" Rene slurred, swaying as he clambered up out of his seat.

"You _are_ a lowbrow twit."

"Shut up Dennis."

Kayla jumped down into the opera pit, walked across, and then clambered back up into the auditorium. She held out her arms and the boys huddled around her in a giant embrace. "I might have to go back to Canada in the next couple days," she whimpered. "But I just wanted to say that I love you guys, and I'm going to miss you all so much, no matter what happens tomorrow."

The group hug tightened, and they held onto each other for a long time before they all let go and stepped away, some of the oldest boys surreptitiously wiping away a tear or two. "Okay," Kayla sniffled, trying to regain her normal composure. "Final set checks, tomorrow at ten, since I am merciful."

"Did you say merciful…?"

"Shut your face, Jamie."

Everyone laughed. "Okay, people, to bed with all of you. I don't know what Madame Giry's going to want with the dancers, so all y'all cavaliers had better find out, I'm not in charge of you. I will see you in the morning, and set crew, we'll be meeting in the second balcony half an hour before doors open, don't be late!"

With murmured goodnights and final hugs, the crowd dispersed. Kayla walked up the stairs, into the backstage, and turned, without really thinking about it, into the passageway to the boxes. She stopped by the door to Box Five, and it opened without her help. She stepped through the door and stared at the shadow in the corner. "One more hug? For luck?"

He slowly lifted his arms, and Kayla did not wait for further invitation. They stood there in the dark, both silently comforting the other, knowing that tomorrow, nothing would be the same.

_What if the one true love's the only one that you get_…?

* * *

**Author's Note: So on one hand, I missed the contest deadline. On the other hand, I've been getting longer chapters done more regularly? But next time there's a fanfic contest on Inkitt, I am all in. **

**Thanks to everyone who read, followed, favourited, etc, and to Guest, sherlollyshippergirl, BeMyHeroSeverus, GrandmaPaupla, and Liandra2428 for their guest reviews. I really appreciate the support from all of you. **

**Not much longer to go now! Hugs for you all for sticking with me this long!**

**Love Tierney**

**readpaintwrite **


	52. Chapter 52

**Author's Note: I do not own The Phantom of The Opera.**

* * *

52

Kayla awoke with an unfamiliar weight surrounding her. Blinking blearily, she realized that the weight, instead of being the metaphorical feeling of anxiety that she had thought, the extra pressure was from the ballet rats snuggled at her sides, at her feet, and on the floor around her cot. "She's awake, she's awake!" Lina whispered from her position by Kayla's knee. Rubbing the back of her hand tiredly over her eyes, Kayla slowly sat up, the young dancers shifting carefully out of her way.

"Ugh… what time is it?"

"Nine 'o' clock."

"Thanks Amelia. I've got another hour… Now, who wants breakfast?"

"Can you tell us a story?"

Kayla felt her heart crack at the earnest tone. "Yes. Yes I can." Over crepes and eggs, Kayla recited _Frozen_, much to the little girls' delight. She had finished the story, and was in the middle of teaching them to sing "Let It Go" when Jamie stuck his head through the door. "Abbots? Are you coming to set prep?"

"Yep, just a minute."

Jamie withdrew as Kayla turned back to the girls. "Okay, from the top," she said cheerfully, keeping the quaver out of her voice. If she left them with nothing else, she wanted them to remember the song she sang and the stories she told. It was not much, but hopefully she could leave them with some happy memories before she vanished forever. "Thank you Kayla!" they chirped, gathering in clumps to hug her before scurrying off to ballet practice. They were all very excited; Kayla had made Madame Giry swear to send the ballet rats and the junior cavaliers home after this final practice, and she had dismissed the senior set crew as well. She had offered the same time off to the junior set crew, but all of the young stagehands had steadfastly refused. In an hour the cavaliers, the ballet rats, and every other individual who was not taking part in _Don_ _Juan Triumphant_ would be at home with their families, safe and well away from the Populaire. She was not going to have any innocent blood on her hands.

"I don't understand, why would we have to go out the stage door?"

Kayla sighed. "Because," she said with all the patience she could muster. "This is the Opera Ghost we're talking about. We know what he's capable of, and I don't want anyone to get hurt. So, if I tell you to get out, you get out, and you take everyone who's backstage with you, understood?"

"Yes, Abbots."

"Good. Spread the word, let the dancers know too. We don't want anyone to get hurt tonight. Okay, everyone, go get lunch. I'm going to see the managers." With that, the crowd dispersed.

* * *

Rapping her knuckles on the door, she waited for the door to creak open and for the familiar nose to peer through the crack. "Mademoiselle Abbots!" Andre cried, throwing open the door. "Please, please, come in."

Kayla stepped across the threshold, smiling ruefully. "Hi. How are you guys feeling about tonight?"

"We have a plan," Firmin said firmly, patting his own sleek hair reassuringly. "All the problems will be solved."

Biting her lip, Kayla stepped further into the room. "I just wanted to let you know, if something happens tonight, and I disappear, it's not your fault. Don't waste time looking for me, I'll be safe. I'm expendable."

Andre visibly recoiled. "What is the meaning of this, mademoiselle?"

"I might be taking a… break… from working for a while…"

"Is there something we have done wrong?" Firmin sounded aghast.

"No, no, no. Just… never mind. Just… don't worry about me. If anything happens."

"Mademoiselle, what could possibly happen? Our plan is fool proof!"

Kayla resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I have some suggestions. For if anything goes wrong."

"Nothing will go wrong, mademoiselle!" Andre assured, his voice overly boisterous.

"Of course it won't. But just in case, I want to make sure we can keep everyone – the audience, cast, and crew – safe. Do we have exits so people can get out if they need to?"

"Well, we have the lobby doors…"

Kayla stifled a sigh. "Never mind, I'll figure it out. I'll talk to the cops when they get here, is that okay?"

"Of course, mademoiselle, we trust you implicitly!" Firmin blustered. "But what would a woman like you have to discuss with the police?"

Turning back from where she was walking towards the door, she grinned, baring all her teeth. "If necessary? Saving all of our lives." She let the door slam shut behind her.

* * *

Kayla heard the clear voices echoing up the stairwell as she walked through the backstage. She was checking up on final props and costumes; the rest of the cast and crew were finishing their dinner, and Kayla had been too nervous to eat much. In addition to that, she had been distracted by the fact that Christine had yet to appear. Christine had spent most of the day in hiding, sometimes with Meg, but, more often than not, alone. At least Kayla had finally found her.

"_Raoul, I'm frightened -_

_Don't make me do this..._

_Raoul, it scares me -_

_Don't put me through this_

_Ordeal by fire..._

_He'll take me, I know..._

_We'll be parted for ever..._

_He won't let me go..._

_What I once used to dream_

_I now dread..._

_If he finds me, it won't_

_Ever end..._

_And he'll always be there,_

_Singing songs in my head..._

_He'll always be there,_

_Singing songs in my head_ ..."

Raoul's voice was smooth and calming, greatly contrasting with Christine's warbling half-sobs. Kayla sat on the floor next to the ached chapel doorway, listening to the song floating up the stairs.

"_You said yourself_

_He was nothing_

_But a man..._

_Yet while he lives,_

_He will haunt us_

_Till we're dead _..."

Kayla stifled a laugh. Whispering to herself, she stared exasperatedly up at the rafters. "Raoul, if we get through this alive, we really need to talk about your bedside manner." Christine's voice grew stronger, pained and innocent.

"_Twisted every way,_

_What answer can I give?_

_Am I to risk my life?_

_To win the chance to live?_

_Can I betray the man_

_Who once inspired my voice?_

_Do I become his prey?_

_Do I have any choice?_

_He kills without a thought,_

_He murders all that's good . . ._

_I know I can't refuse_

_And yet, I wish I could . . ._

_Oh God - if I agree,_

_What horrors wait for me?_

_In this, the Phantom's opera . . ._?"

There was a long moment of silence, and Kayla debated heading down there and intervening. Christine needed someone else to talk to. Also, she hoped that Erik had not heard that complimentary interlude. But then Raoul sang again, softly and sweetly.

"_Christine, Christine,_

_Don't think that I don't care -_

_But every hope_

_And every prayer_

_Rests on you now_ . . ."

Christine sobbed. Kayla jackknifed to her feet and marched down the stairs. Christine and Raoul were locked in a desperate embrace, the young soprano curled into his chest like a child. Raoul's head jerked up at the thump of Kayla's boot heels on the stone.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Raoul's eyes narrowed. "Yes, mademoiselle, unfortunately you are."

"To bad. I need to talk to Christine."

"I don't think – "

"Christine? Could we talk please? We should be getting you ready soon, anyway."

Sniffling, Christine wriggled out of Raoul's arms and stood up shakily.

"Christine…"

"It's alright, Raoul." Christine was even paler than usual, but there was a steely glint in her dark brown eyes. She smiled tentatively at Kayla before tripping lightly up the stairs.

"Mademoiselle."

"Go to the prima donna room, Christine. I'll meet you there in a minute." As the young girl scampered away, Kayla slowly spun to face Raoul. "Hi. Can I help you?"

"Mademoiselle, you have no right to address me or my fiancé in such as disrespectful manner."

Kayla cocked her head at him. "Dear lord. Do you ever think before you speak?"

Raoul laughed, managing to sound simultaneously amused and angry. "You are too familiar with your betters for your own good."

"My betters? Ha!" Kayla turned to go.

"Kayla!"

"Holy shit, what?!"

"I do not want you to be onstage tonight."

"I'm going to be in the wings, dumbass. In the balconies. As per my job description?"

"It is bad enough that I must risk Christine, I cannot risk you as well."

"Excuse me? You can't risk me? I am my own goddamn property, thanks! I'll go wherever I like!"

"I forbid you from being onstage tonight."

"Do you know what your problem is, Raoul? You're possessive. You can't stand to think that a woman has a life outside of you, and it drives you crazy. Like, are you going to let Christine sing after this is all over? Do you love her? Hell, do you trust her?"

"Of course-"

"Then why _the_ _fuck_ are you still after me?"

The ice in his eyes melted away. "I cannot help it, Kayla, I –"

Kayla held out a hand. "Nope. We're going to stop right there. You're engaged."

"Why are you so disgusted by my proposal?"

"Morals. Plus I have shit to do, I don't have time to listen to you try to convince me to be your side chick. On that note, bye."

Kayla bolted up the stairs before Raoul could say anything, and sprinted to the prima donna room. She had an Aminta to prepare.

* * *

Over the next couple of hours, Kayla raced between the cast dressing rooms, Carlotta's private dressing room, the prima donna room, and the costuming department, skidding across the floor like an overexcited puppy. "Kayla, Kayla, Kayla, it is fine. I can do dis," Carlotta chuckled as Kayla put the finishing touches on the diva's sultry makeup.

"Everything has to be perfect," Kayla muttered, intent on smoothing out Carlotta's eyeliner.

"Kayla, it is fine. Da chorus is ready, da dancers are ready, and I am ready. Someone else can get me into my dress. You need to go and get ready now."

"I don't have anything to get ready for…"

Carlotta glared at her. "Do you think I am stupid enough to think dat da precious phantom would let 'is precious manager onto his stage in dat?"

Kayla looked down at her dust stained pants and faded burgundy shirt. "Oh. Right. I suppose."

"Go. Get it. And den go get ready with Daäe, she needs da support."

Kayla leant down and hugged the prima donna. "Thank you so much, Carlotta."

"Why ar' you thanking me, Abbots?"

Kayla blinked back her tears. "For being a friend. We can call each other that now, yes?"

Carlotta pondered this for a moment before her crimson lip curled. "Yes, we can. I will allow it."

"I'll come see you later, okay? But stay safe tonight."

Carlotta tossed her hair, recently coloured ebony black. "Dis is da Phantom's Opera, did you think I would do anything else?"

Kayla gave her the thumbs up and shot out of the room.

* * *

As she twisted the door handle of the dormitory, she was struck with a sense of nostalgia. She had lived here for months, worked here for months, and after tonight she'd never see this place again. Fighting back tears again, she walked into the dancers' dormitory for the last time. It was desolate, Madame Giry having arranged for the possessions of all the Populaire residents to go to their relatives, out of harm's way. The room was not empty, despite this. There was a form bent over her trunk.

"Hey, Erik."

The Opera Ghost jumped a little bit. Kayla laughed. "I just scared the Phantom of the Opera. Nothing I ever do in the future will ever live up to this moment."

"How amusing, Kayla."

"What are you doing with my stuff?"

Erik looked down at the messenger bag hanging from his gloved hand as if he had forgotten it was there. "I… I just wanted to make sure you have everything. I thought I would bring it down to my house for you."

A smile blossomed across Kayla's face. "You're really sweet. I was going to do that, actually."

Erik, inexplicably, smiled back. "I thought… if this night ends how all sense tells me it will, and if I have to flee… you could come with me."

"Come with you?"

"We could leave France, travel the world. You and I, we could create the most famous operas of all time, I could write the music, you could design the sets and costumes… if Christine makes the decision I hope she will, she can sing for us."

Kayla's heart broke. "That sounds perfect, Erik. Absolutely perfect."

"But if the magic that brought you hear catches up with you and takes you home… I wanted you to have your things. Just in case."

His deep voice was so earnest that Kayla had to laugh. "Thanks, Erik. Everything's in there?"

The Opera Ghost peered into the bag. "Everything that you brought with you.. your sketchbook, your paints, your outrageous cosmetics... And your Masquerade mask. Something to remember this world by."

"I don't think this world is going to be something that I forget." Kayla held out her arms. "May I?"

Erik set the bag down and practically rushed at her, hugging her tightly as he lifted her slightly and spun her around. Kayla wrapped her arms around his neck, grinning like a madman. "My little magician… thank you."

Kayla pulled back and looked at him sternly, dark blue meeting dark green. "Nuh uh. This isn't goodbye. Not yet, you hear me? If anything happens tonight, I am going to stick with you and back you up, you got that? Don't you dare say goodbye."

Erik chuckled darkly. "Very well, Kayla. Until tonight."

Picking up her bag and slinging it over his broad shoulder, the Phantom of the Opera disappeared into the dark. Kayla fanned her face, letting a few tears slip down her cheeks. "My goodness. Remember when I used to make fun of Samantha for being so desperately in love with the Opera Ghost. Damn if I regret that now."

* * *

Knocking on the door, Kayla waited patiently for Christine to unlock it and pull it open nervously. The young soprano had a dressing gown wrapped around her. "These costumes are rather scandalous, aren't they?" she whispered, opening the door just wide enough for Kayla to slip through. "But quite beautiful."

Kayla set the bundle of clothes on the settee as Christine sank back into the chair in front of the dressing table. The brunette examined her face in the mirror. "I barely recognize myself."

"What's there not to recognize? You're Christine Daäe, the miraculous up and coming diva, daughter of Gustave Daäe, and one of the most talented and kindest people I have ever had the fortune to meet." Kayla gave one last check over Christine's makeup, and then checked her hair. Everything was perfect.

"I don't feel like myself."

Kayla sighed. "Do you want my honest advice, baby? You need to step up your confidence game. There is a really brave girl in there, and you can't hide behind Raoul, even if he thinks that's your place."

Christine whipped around, her face outraged. "He thinks that's my place?!"

"That's my assumption."

Huffing, Christine sank deeper into her chair. "I'm not a child. I can stand up for myself."

"Yes, you are a child. But I am also a child. Hate to break it to you, but I don't think there's ever really a point when you feel like you're not a little kid."

"But I don't need Raoul to protect me."

"No. No you don't. If you want that relationship to last, you're going to have to communicate and you're going to have to be on equal terms."

Christine nodded. Kayla noticed again the steely glint in her doe eyes. The child that had come with Madame Giry to the opera house all those years ago was slowly disappearing. "How come you are so smart, Kayla?"

Kayla let out a peal of laughter. "I'm not smart, just experienced." She picked up the bundle on the settee and unfolded it, staring at the threads of crimson swirling across the black vest, running the silky fabric of the dress shirt through her hands. Tearing open the buttons of her work shirt, she let it drop to the floor, pulling on the new one and quickly fastening the shiny ebony buttons. Pulling her arms through the vest, she stared at herself in the golden mirror, yanking the hems of the vest into place.

Christine bounced in her seat. "Come here, I want to do your hair!"

It was too adorable a request to refuse, so Kayla sat patiently as Christine expertly braided. "Look," she said, pointing at the stage manager's reflection. Kayla tilted her head to the side, marveling at the shine of the scarlet ribbon Christine had woven through the blonde braid. "Now we match," Christine smiled, leaning her head against Kayla's. Kayla looped her arm around Christine's waist, hugging the younger girl tightly. She was going to miss her surrogate sister.

Later, after a discussion with the police about getting the audience out of the Populaire at the first sign of danger, Kayla joined the set crew in the wings. "Okay. A few final reminders: if it looks like anything is about to go wrong, get out. Gather everyone you can and get out of the Populaire, understood? I don't want anyone to get hurt."

"What about you?"

"If I tell you to get out, you get out. Don't waste time worrying about me, worry about everyone who's backstage. Is that understood?"

Everyone nodded, looking at each other nervously. Kayla took a deep breath. "Okay, guys. This is it. We've done all we can, and it's out of our hands now. Let's get this done."

The set crew swarmed around her, clinging to each other and to her, hanging on for dear life. "Alright, gents," Jamie announced, his voice muffled. "Let's do this. For Abbots!"

"For Abbots!"

Each of the crew members came up to give her hugs of their own before disappearing into the backstage on their way to their positions. Jamie was last. "You stay safe. You hear me? Write if you can. And I expect you to visit."

Kayla choked back a sob. "I'll try, Jamie."

He squeezed her tightly, patting her shoulder comfortingly. "Okay. Now let's go make this an opera to remember." The murmurs of the audience silenced abruptly, and the violins began to sing.

The Phantom's Opera had begun.

* * *

**Author's Note: Next chapter - Don Juan Triumphant. Almost there.**

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favourited, followed, etc, and to Guest, Liandra2428, and guest for their reviews. **

**I appreciate the support from all of you guys. And if you want to experience this story all over again, I have also posted it on Inkitt, along with one of my original short stories. So if you want to support me on another forum, please do. (And next time there's another fanfiction contest, I'm totally entering this. You guys have boosted my confidence so much.) Hugs and virtual cookies for you all!**

**Love, Tierney**

**readpaintwrite - Tumblr**

**Hannah Anderson - Inkitt**


	53. Chapter 53

**Author's Note: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

53

"_Here the sire may serve the dam…"_

They were an act into the opera, and the familiar cacophony of chords had begun. This was it. Kayla leant over the edge of the second balcony and waved frantically at Clemens. "Get the backstage cleared, now!"

"_Here the master takes his meat…"_

Clemens saluted, and the red headed boy disappeared into the dark. Kayla peered down at the stage. Carlotta, despite the complaints she had during every rehearsal until now, was in her element. Her stage persona was just like her; dramatic, loud, overbearing, and feisty. "_Poor young maiden! For the thrill on your tongue of stolen sweets, you will have to pay the bill – tangled in the winding sheets!_" Her voice echoed around the hall, making the harsh and dissonant notes seem like a perfect aria. "_Serve the meal and serve the maid! Serve the master so that, when tables, plans, and maids are laid_…" Her voice rose, sultry and seductive. Her song and the voices of the other actors harmonized together like a demonic choir.

"_Don Juan triumphs once again!" _

Piangi and Marizio stepped out onto the stage, cloaked in black. Kayla saw a shadow move out of the corner of her eye and barely stifled a shriek. "Okay, okay, Kayla, calm down, chill, everything's going to be fine…" she muttered to herself.

"_Passarino faithful friend_

_Once again recite the plan."_

Marizio seemed to laugh, lithe gestures expressing every emotion even without his voice. There were some soft chuckles from the crowd; Marizio was an audience favourite.

"_Your young guest believes I'm you,_

_I, the master, you the man…"_

Piangi nodded, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

"_When you met, you wore my cloak,_

_With my scarf you hid your face._

_She believes she dines with me_

_In her master's borrowed place!_

_Furtively, we'll scoff and quaff,_

_Stealing what in truth is mine,_

_When it's late and modesty starts to mellow with the wine!"_

Marizio was really getting in to it… his voice rose and fell with all the excitement of a child.

"_You come home!_

_I use your voice..._

_Slam the door like crack of doom!"_

"_I shall say_

_Come hide with me!_

_Where oh where?_

_Of course, my room…"_

"Ew." Jamie, standing behind her, made a noise of disgust. "Doesn't matter how many times I hear that line, it will still be weird."

Kayla nodded. "Agreed."

"Abbots!" Clemens ran up the stair, panting. "The backstage's clear. Just the dancers, Madame Giry, Christine and Giudicelli left."

"Perfect. As soon as Piangi and Marizio exit the stage, get them out of here, understood?"

"Yes sir."

Kayla cracked a small smile. "Thanks for that, Clemens."

"Anytime, sir." He vanished again into the gloom.

"Jamie, I want the rest of the crew out of here. Now."

"I'm not going anywhere, Abbots."

On the stage below, Piangi pulled a black half mask over his head, adjusting it carefully over his eyes.

Marizio cackled. "_Poor thing hasn't got a chance_…"

"This isn't a choice, shit's about to go down, and I want you guys out of here."

"As soon as something happens, I will go, Abbots, but don't make me go yet."

"Okay. But tell Clemens to get the younger ones out; the only crew members I want in here right now are Clemens, you, Dennis, and Marius. Get the rest out, now."

"I'll tell them you love them."

"You do that, Blanchard."

"_Here's my hat, my cloak and sword._

_Conquest is assured_

_If I do not forget myself and laugh!"_

Throwing open the back curtain with a booming laugh, Piangi exited the stage. "Oh my god. Clemens, go, get Piangi out of here!"

"But Abbots, he's still performing…"

"You heard me, get him out of here!'

There was a muffled thump and the sound of a scuffle. "Never mind, Clemens, I'll deal with it. Jamie, rest of the crew, now."

"Yes Abbots."

Kayla skittered down the stairs as Christine walked serenely onto the stage. The tense audience visibly relaxed, the disgust from the previous songs vanishing beneath a sweet melody. Leaping over the last four steps, Kayla bolted into the dark.

"_No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy…"_

The dark shadow loomed over Piangi's limp body. "Oh my god, you little bitch, you promised!"

The Phantom put a black gloved finger to his lips as the baritone's form twitched.

"_No dreams within her heart, but dreams of love!"_

Kayla sprang forward and pulled Piangi away from the Phantom's feet, the baritone groaning softly as he was dragged over the wooden boards.

"_Master?"_

Emerald eyes glinted at her as the spectre glided onto the stage. "Carlotta…" Piangi groaned.

"Carlotta!" Kayla hissed.

The diva hurried around the corner, her hands flying to cover her mouth. "Ubaldo?"

"Shh, shh, he's fine, just dizzy. I want you and Piangi to get out, now."

"But, Abbots…"

Kayla gestured impatiently at the stage. Smoother than silk, the deep voice echoed through the Populaire.

"_Passarino, go away, for the trap is set_

_and waits for his prey!"_

Carlotta's eyes bulged. "Mio dio."

"I know, you have to go, please, Giudicelli. He might bring the house down, and I'm not talking figuratively."

Carlotta bent down and helped her husband to her feet. Kayla followed them as the pair stumbled to the stage door. As Piangi hobbled out into the courtyard, Carlotta turned back and hugged Kayla. "I trust you with dis, but stay safe, Abbots. Stay safe."

Kayla took a shaky breath. "I will… ally."

Carlotta snorted. "Friends. Sisters. Anything but allies."

Grinning sadly, Kayla squeezed Carlotta and then let go. "Sisters," she agreed. "Now go home, sister. Stay safe."

"Stay safe, Abbots."

And with that, Carlotta turned and hurried over to her husband. Kayla fought down the urge to cry and raced back towards the stage.

"_You have come here_

_In pursuit of your deepest urge_

_In pursuit of that wish which till now has been silent..._

_Silent…"_

The ballerinas and cavaliers silently crept onto the stage as Kayla ran past, the pale makeup making them look like ghosts. The backstage was eerily silent now, letting the entrancing voice of the Opera Ghost curl through the air like smoke.

"_I have brought you_

_That our passions may fuse and merge_

_In your mind you've already succumbed to me, dropped all defenses_

_Completely succumbed to me…_

_Now you are here with me_

_No second thoughts_

_You've decided_

_Decided_…"

Kayla raised her chin. This was it. With this, she was firmly…

"_Past the point of no return…"_

* * *

**Author's Note: A mini chapter for all y'all today... Sorry it's so short, but I had to force myself to write today, and a mini chapter was all I had time (and motivation) for. But Point of No Return next chapter will be quite a bit longer, this I vow!**

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed, faved, followed, read, etc, and to Minha, Bubbly, E-man-dy-S, Liandra2428, Guest, guest, and Guest for their anonymous reviews. **

**I love you all, and I'll try to post again soon. **

**Hugs, Tierney**


	54. Chapter 54

**Author's Note: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera**

* * *

54

"_Past the point of no return…"_

Erik's voice flowed through the darkness as Kayla bolted through the deserted backstage, sliding around the corner and into the wings. Skidding to a stop next to Meg, she shot Christine a thumbs up.

"_No backward glances…"_

Christine's wide brown eyes steeled even as she stood and turned toward her Don Juan, ivory shoulders trembling. Out of the corner of her eye, Kayla watched Marizio disappear behind the curtain as the dancers moved in front of it, getting into position and beginning their dance.

"_Our games of make-believe are at an end…_

_Past all thought of if or when, no use resisting_

_Abandon thought and let the dream descend…"_

From where Kayla stood, Erik was nothing but a shadow, stalking through the blackness around an angel bathed in flickering golden light. With a jolt, she saw that he was not wearing gloves. A hand landed gently on her shoulder. Turning her head, Kayla grinned ruefully at Jamie, who was flanked by Clemens, Dennis, and Marius. Marius's eyes narrowed skeptically. "Sacre bleu, Piangi lost a _lot_ of weight, and it's been what, two minutes?"

"Let's not mock the composer now," Dennis hissed, punching Marius in the shoulder.

Marius recoiled. "That's the composer?" Jamie and Kayla nodded. "Dear god."

"I want you guys out of here. Now. You too, Meg."

"I promised Christine I would be here, and I am not leaving."

"We're not leaving, Abbots."

Kayla stared at her crewmates sternly. "You heard me ask for something and I never ask twice."

Jamie snorted. "I'm a stubborn bastard, I wouldn't try to stop me."

Shaking her head, Kayla glanced back at the stage. "Fine. You're grown-ass men, I can't stop you. But if anything changes from what we rehearsed, you get out of here; is that understood? You guys promised me."

The four boys nodded grimly.

On the stage, Christine abandoned the basket, taking one timid step closer to the spectre. Erik stepped behind Christine and, without any of his usual hesitance, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, hand gently resting on her neck. She collapsed against him, her eyes drifting shut. Erik's smile was feral.

"_What raging fire shall flood the soul?_

_What rich desire unlocks its door?"_

Erik's fingers traced across the soprano's collarbone and down her arm, Christine staring at him in awe as he sensually lifted her hand. His gaze was electric.

"_What sweet seduction lies before us?"_

"I don't remember this from rehearsal."

"Jamie."

"Yes, Abbots?"

"Shut up."

Erik began to move, stepping backward slowly, leading Christine toward the staircase, his eyes fixed on hers.

"_Past the point of no return, the final threshold_

_What warm unspoken secrets will we learn?_

_Beyond the point of no return…"_

"Abbots," Marizio whispered, appearing behind them. "Where is everyone?"

"We might be at war, Marizio. Go find Piangi – he's outside with Carlotta – and get out of here, and take everyone else you can find with you. Meg, I want you to go find your mum and ask her to get the dancers off the stage as soon as Don Juan and Aminta go up on the balcony, you hear me?"

With a nod, Marizio vanished. Meg wrapped her slender arms around Kayla's waist. "I'll see you soon?"

Kayla choked back a sob and hugged the smaller girl. "I'll see you soon."

With that, Meg was gone.

Christine pulled away, stepping back and away from Don Juan, pulling her lace sleeve up nervously. Yellow silk curled like flames around her legs, a red rose glowing like an ember in her brown hair.

"_You have brought me_

_To that moment where words run dry_

_To that moment where speech disappears_

_Into silence, silence…"_

Her chin rising elegantly, she stared up at Raoul, who frantically gestured at the officer in the box, who immediately pulled out a rifle. Her voice grew stronger, her eyes brightened, and her posture grew more regal. She looked calmer than Kayla had seen her look in months.

"_I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why_

_In my mind I've already imagined_

_Our bodies entwining defenseless and silent_

_And now I am here with you_

_No second thoughts_

_I've decided, decided…"_

The young soprano took one, determined step forward. Then another, then another, until she was practically prowling, dark and predatory, toward the right hand staircase. Erik took a step onto the second spiral, gazing across the empty space at her, his eyes thoughtful.

"_Past the point of no return, no going back now_

_Our passion play has now at last begun_

_Past all thought of right or wrong, one final question…_

_How long should we two wait, before we're one?_

_When will the blood begin to race?_

_The sleeping bud burst into bloom?_

_When will the flames at last consume us?"_

The dancers disappeared from off the stage as Aminta and Don Juan stepped onto the balcony. _God speed, guys_. The audience muttered, seemingly confused. Erik and Christine, however, were aware of nothing but each other. Erik abandoned his cape in one swift motion. Both glided forward, drawn to each other like moth to flame.

"_Past the point of no return, the final threshold…"_

Their voices only grew stronger, layering over each other perfectly as Erik spun Christine around, clutching her to his chest and burying his head in her neck. The red of the flames danced across their cheeks.

"_The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn…_

_We've passed the point of no return…"_

"Boys. Time's up. Get out, now, and try to make sure everyone makes it out."

"Kayla, what – "

"Trust me."

"At least give me a hug before you dash."

"Here you go. A hug for you, a hug for you, a hug for you, and a hug for you."

"Much obliged."

"Get out of here, Blanchard. Stay safe. I love you guys."

"Stay safe, little sister."

The four boys disappeared into the dark. Wiping away tears, Kayla ran up the backstage stairs, panting, sobbing, and stumbling as she leapt up the wooden steps, trying to reach the man she was trying to protect before it was too late.

"_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime_

_Lead me, save me from my solitude_

_Say you want me with you here beside you…"_

Kayla reached the backstage balcony just as Christine's eyes opened in recognition. The brunette drew away, turning to stare at the man standing in front of her. Kayla waved frantically, and Erik smiled at her briefly before turning his tender gaze back on his angel.

"_Anywhere you go let me go too…_

_Christine, that's all I ask of..."_

Brown eyes paradoxically loving and pained, Christine reached her hand up to his cheek, and the mask fell to the floor. A woman screamed.

Erik, his scars and deformations on display for all to see, stared at the young soprano in shock, chest heaving. His black hair was mussed, one side thin and wild, the other normal and sleek. The flesh beneath the mask was red, rippled, creased and hollow. It was like melted wax. _Tumblr was right_, Kayla thought fleetingly_. It does kinda look like a bad sunburn_.

"Raoul! Captain! Get everyone out of here now!" Kayla shouted, gesturing frantically at the police chief and Vicomte seated in Box Five. Raoul shot to his feet, his head swiveling madly back and forth between the girl on stage and the girl half-hidden behind the curtain. One of the officers immediately bolted out of the box, hopefully to take her advice.

Lifting his head, Erik stared across the walk way at Kayla. The fear in his eyes broke her heart. She shook her head.

His eyes hardened, and he raised his sword.

"Erik, no!"

He stopped short at Kayla's shriek. Baring his teeth, he brought the blade down.

The sword sliced through one of two ropes bound to the railing. The trapdoor opened, and Erik and Christine fell through the gaping maw in the floor. Before her common sense could take control, Kayla leapt across the railing onto the walkway and hurled herself into the empty air. As the darkness devoured her, all she could hear were screams.

* * *

**Author's Note: Sorry for a) the wait, and b) the short chapter, but I've been crazy busy. I've got three papers due in the next couple weeks, plus finals, plus my sister and I just got a bunny, and - wait for it - I've entered The Dangers of Buying Birthday Presents in a fanfiction contest. It's on Inkitt, and it's based on votes. I've got one vote right now, and the current score to beat is 14 votes. I'd like to be at least in the Top 10% category, so if any of you want to go and vote for me, please do! You can just search up The Dangers of Buying Birthday Presents, it shouldn't be too hard to find. **

**Thank you to everyone for their reviews, follows, favourites, etc, and to the following guest reviewers: Guest, Anonymous, Minha, Guest, guest, TwinSisterz, Liandra2428, Guest, Allie, E-man-dy-S, Guest, Michelle Desler, and Minha again. **

**I appreciate all of your support, hugs for you all. And please, please, vote for me if you have the time! Doing well in this contest would literally mean the world to me! Love you all!**

**Tierney**

**Tumblr - readpaintwrite**

**Inkitt - Hannah Anderson**


	55. Chapter 55

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. "I Found" belongs to Amber Run.**

* * *

55

Kayla fell through the darkness, surrounding by curling shadows and snarling spectres, tumbling down a hole that she was sure would never end. But end it did, with a distantly painful landing on a surface that was equal parts soft and rock-like. She laid there for a moment, the air knocked out of her, music ringing in her ears.

"_Down once more, to the dungeons of my black despair…"_

Kayla swore and scrambled to her feet, racing after the torchlight flickering away, boots thumping on what must have been stone. Red and yellow and orange swam across shining black rock, trailing behind two struggling shadows.

"_Down we plunge, toward the prison of my mind…"_

Her lungs were burning as she sprinted through the tunnel, the figures in the distant steadily growing clearer.

"_Down that path, into darkness deep as hell!"_

The pain in the voice cracked through her heart, sending tears down her cheeks and a stab through her chest.

"_Why you ask was I bound in chains in this cold and dismal place_

_Not for any mortal sin, but for the wickedness of my abhorred face!"_

She heard Christine let out a shriek of pain, but judging by the shadows dancing on the walls, her girl was putting up one hell of a fight… far more, in fact, than she had remembered from the movie…

"Erik!"

The spectre turned and stared at her, light glinting in his wild eyes, shadows making his face look like the skull he so often compared himself too. His lip curled almost imperceptibly, but he immediately turned back around and stormed back down the tunnel once more. Distant voices echoed in Kayla's ears.

"_Track down this murderer, he must be found_

_Track down this murderer, he must be found…"_

Erik burst into the lair like a bat out of hell, dragging Christine after him, Kayla following closely. "Erik, calm down, you don't have to do this…"

"_Hounded out by everyone," _Erik snarled, pulling Christine towards the stairs_. _

"…_met with hatred everywhere,_

_No kind words from anyone, no compassion anywhere…_

_Christine…"_

His voice broke, glass shattering out of his mouth and his heart falling in pieces to the stone below. Pulling her like a desperate child to the alcove, he ripped back the curtain, revealing the wax figure of the soprano.

"_Why?"_

Christine stood silently, her eyes apologetic but unrepentant. He shook her shoulders. _"Why?"_

Kayla rushed forward and tried to force herself between them. "Erik, stop. You're a better man than this."

The Phantom let out a bark of laughter. It echoed around the cave like the screams of ravens. He stepped away nevertheless. "I am not a man, little magician. I am a monster."

"Monsters are not monsters by default, Erik."

He laughed again.

"What do you want?" Christine demanded, her brown eyes fiery and her curls mussed. Her sleeves hung off her shoulders, but she didn't seem to feel the cold. "I have been manipulated, tricked, and forced into situations I did not wish for ever since I became soprano. What else do you want from me?"

He stared at her, flaming brown meeting blazing green in a chorus of sparks.

"He wants you to play your role." Kayla stared at the Phantom, realization creeping through every vein. "He wants you to play the role that _destiny_ has chosen for you."

Christine glanced at the dress, her eyes widening. "No! I did not choose this, and I will not."

"I don't think you have a choice, love."

Christine raised her chin and stared down the man in front of her. "Fine," she snapped. "I will play your game."

Erik smiled, the crooked corners of his mouth curling. "You've already begun."

"_Keep your hand at the level of your eyes…"_

"_The level of my eyes…"_

The voices echoed in Kayla's mind. She rubbed her temples with her fingers, frowning. What was the point of any of this? She had not truly changed anything. She had let Erik down.

"_I'll use you as a warning sign_

_That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind…"_

The lyrics slipped quietly from her mouth without any prompting. She bit her lip. At least, if the spirit of musicality was hitting her now, it was doing so quietly. She had no desire to try to compare her voice to Erik's.

Erik had shed his coat and vest, and was hunched over the organ, the muscles of his back clearly visible beneath the thin white shirt.

"Dude. Do you lift?"

Erik swivelled around and glared at her. She raised her hands in surrender. "Sorry. I'm tired, and I have no filter."

"_I'll use you as a focal point…"_

"This was my moment!" he snarled. "My moment of triumph, and now it is in flames."

"Honest to God, Erik, why couldn't you have just left the Populaire alone? I know Raoul and the managers were being little bitches, but maybe you could have avoided the arson?"

Erik cocked his head at her. "Arson? I did not commit _arson_, little magician."

"I think setting the Populaire on fire counts as arson."

"I didn't."

"…What."

"I did not cut the rope. I saw you… and I could not. Did you know my plan all this time?"

Kayla could only nod.

"I never would have, you know. This opera house means so much to you."

"_So I don't lose sight of what I want…"_

Kayla gaped. "Means so much to _me_?! It's _your_ home, and I've been here for, what, six months?"

"It is your home as much as it is mine. It is a part of us now. We have created our own worlds here."

"_I've moved further than I thought I could…"_

She glared at him. "You complete asshole." Trying to look at everything but the slightly calmer Phantom, she noticed her bag sitting innocently by the mirror: the final door. "You could let her go. Christine, I mean. We could go to England. Or Italy. No one gets hurt. It'd be easier."

"_But I miss you more than I thought I would…"_

Erik grimaced. "I have crossed too far into hell to back away now."

"_I'll use you as a warning sign…" _

Kayla walked towards him and sat next to him on the bench, tentatively putting a hand on his shoulder. "Do you ever wish…I don't know…Do you ever wish that none of this had ever happened?"

"_That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind…"_

Erik let out a bark of laughter. "More times than I can count, little magician, in years gone by. But Christine, you… I would live these past months over and over again. For an eternity."

"_I found love where it wasn't supposed to be…"_

"After all the trouble I caused you? After swearing at you in Swedish? After basically forcing you to deal with the Vicomte constantly? For drinking all your alcohol?"

Erik snorted. "I would live every day since Hannibal a million times over."

"_Right in front of me…"_

"What about me drunk crying in your house? Even that?"

He was much closer to her than he had been when the conversation had started. "Every minute of every day, Kayla."

"_Talk some sense to me…"_

She leaned slightly towards him, and found that his arm was around her shoulders. She propped her head on his bicep. "Are you sure you don't want to just go to Italy? Or we could go to Iceland. It's apparently lovely this time of year."

"I will not flee, Kayla. I have come to close to victory to turn back."

"But you could lose everything."

She could feel the warmth of his disfigured skin against her hair. "I could not care less at the moment."

"_I found love where it wasn't supposed to be…_

_Right in front of me_

_Talk some sense to me_…"

"What are you singing, Kayla?"

She stiffened. Slowly turning her head, she stared up into the amused green eyes of the Phantom of the Opera. "Amber Run?" she squeaked. "It's a band?"

"You have a lovely voice. Not exactly opera worthy, but roughly beautiful, nevertheless."

Kayla nudged him none-to-gently. "Gees, you really know how to make a girl feel special."

"You cannot fault a monster for an honest tongue."

Extracting herself from his arm, she straddled the bench and put her hands on his shoulders, forcing him to look at her. "Listen to me. Are you listening? Good. _You're not a monster. _Got it? You may have made mistakes, but you're only a monster if you refuse to change."

"I wouldn't even begin to know how to change."

Kayla wanted to say that she knew he would. Instead she said "When the time comes, you'll know what to do."

"Your blind faith in me is comforting and useless."

"Just trust me, Erik. Please."

"I trust you, Abbots."

There was a tapping of slippers on rock. Kayla and Erik both turned.

"_Have you gorged yourself at last in your lust for blood?"_

Christine's voice was rich, angry and fierce and afraid all at once. Erik turned from the organ, lips parting as he gazed upon the sight of his angel draped in white. Christine was not simply an angel now; she was an avenging angel.

"_Am I now to be prey to your lust for flesh?"_

Standing and walking towards the furious girl, Erik stared at her, his eyes loving and gentle. "_That fate which condemns me to wallow in blood…_" He reached a trembling hand to her cheek. _"…has also denied me the joys of the flesh…_" Christine turned her head away, and Erik's voice broke. Kayla took a shaky breath and stood, moving a step closer to the angel and the demon. "_This face, the infection… that poisons our love…"_ His hands hovered over the soprano's shoulders, shaking, before he drew away and walked back towards the organ.

"_This face, which earned a mother's fear and loathing_

_A mask, my first unfeeling scrap of clothing…"_

Kayla watched Christine's eyes soften, brown glistening with the beginnings of tears. Both girls gasped as the phantom jolted back around and grabbed Christine, pulling her close.

"Merciful heavens, Erik!"

"_Pity comes too late, turn around and face your fate:_

_An eternity of this before your eyes…"_

Christine, deviating from what Kayla expected, gently wrapped her small hands around his trembling wrists.

"_This haunted face holds no horror for me now…_

_It's in your soul that the true distortion lies..."_

Erik let out a quiet, shaky sob, his green eyes vulnerable and afraid. Silence fell, and it was Kayla who broke it.

"_I'll use you as a makeshift gauge_

_Of how much to give and how much to take…_

_I'll use you as a warning sign_

_That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind…"_

Her voice trailed off, and Erik's eyes glistened. A clink broke through the stillness. Erik's head snapped back up with animalistic ferocity.

"_Wait! I think, my dear, we have a guest!"_

A sopping wet figure appeared on the other side of the gate, droplets of water rolling down blond locks. His shirt was open down to his navel. It was not exactly high fashion.

"_Raoul!"_

"_Sir!"_

"_Shit!"_

"_This is indeed an unparalleled delight!_

_I had rather hoped that you would come!"_

Erik dragged Christine closer to him, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and holding her close to him.

"Erik, come on, this isn't a contest…" As Kayla put a calming hand on his shoulder, Erik's other arm shot out and circled her hips, yanking her into his side. Kayla shrieked.

"_And now_," Erik crowed, looking as smug as only a man with two girls on his arm could, "_my wish comes true! You have truly made my night_!"

"_Free them! Do what you like, only free them!_

_Have you no pity?"_

"_I found love where it wasn't supposed to be…"_

Erik whispered wickedly into Christine's ear. "_Your lover makes a passionate plea…_"

"_Right in front of me…"_

Christine rolled her eyes and shot an almost annoyed glance at Raoul. _"Please Raoul; it's useless…"_

"_I love them_!" Raoul yelled, shaking the iron bars. "_Does that mean nothing? I love them!_

_Show some compassion!_"

Erik bared his teeth, spitting out each word. "_The world showed no compassion to me!_"

"_Talk some sense to me…"_

"_Christine! Kayla! Let me see them!"_

"_Be my guest, sir_…"

* * *

**Author's Note: ... Do you guys hate me yet? **

**I just finished my two final research papers, so I'm posting a chapter to celebrate! Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favourited, followed, etc, and to Liandra2428, Minha, guest, Catherine, E-man-dy-S, Jennifer, Guest, guest, and Michelle Desler for their guest reviews. If I missed anyone, apologies, its been a long day. **

**As far as the Inkitt Fandom2 ****contest goes, I've sunk down to the 20th spot, and I held 2nd for all of fifteen minutes. So if you haven't voted yet, please do, because apparently only the top 10 make it into the next round. I'm being beaten by Tomb Raider, for heaven's sakes. So if you'd like to keep voting, I'd deeply appreciate it. **

**I love you all, and thanks so much for all your support through this year of writing. **

**love, Tierney **

**readpaintwrite**


	56. Chapter 56

**Author's Note: Standard disclaimer. I assume you all know this one by now.**

* * *

56

Erik stalked towards Raoul, rope slithering, snakelike, between his elegant fingers. "_Monsieur, I bid you welcome_…" he cooed. "_Did you think that I would harm them? Why would I make them pay for the sins that are yours?_!"

Too fast to know how he did it, Kayla and Christine started back in shock as the rope circled Raoul's neck. "_Order your fine horses now!_" he roared, wrapping the Vicomte's wrists with furious jerks. "_Raise up your hand to the level of your eyes! Nothing can save you now, except perhaps Christine!_" He turned back to shore, wading through the water as he pointed at the soprano. "_Start a new life with me; buy his freedom with your love!_" Splashing back to Raoul, he tugged on the rope and the nobleman choked, blue eyes bulging. "_Refuse me and you send your lover to his death!_" Christine made an indignant noise in the back of her throat that only Kayla heard. "_This is the choice: this is the point of no return!_"

Words drifted from Kayla's mouth like smoke. "_And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be_…"

"_The tears I might have shed for your dark fate_ –"Christine's glistening eyes blazed, her hand tightening around Kayla's. "_Grow cold, and turn to tears of hate!_" Pain flashed across Erik's face.

"_Right in front of me…"_

"_Christine forgive me, please forgive me…_" Raoul struggled uselessly against the ropes. "_I did it all for you and all for nothing_…"

Stepping forward, closer to the water's edge, Christine stared grimly at her former teacher. "_Farewell, my idol and false friend_…"

"_Talk some sense to me…"_

"_Too late for turning back, too late for prayers and useless pity_…"

"_Past all hope or cries for help, no point in fighting!"_

"_Say you love him and my life is over…"_

"_Oh, and I found love where it wasn't supposed to be, no-"_

Erik and Raoul's voices overlapped in a dark harmony, desperate and dangerous. "_For either way you choose, you cannot win_…"

"_He has to win_…"

"_Now do you spend your days with me, or do you send him to his grave?"_

"_Why make her lie to you to save me?_" Raoul snarled.

"_Right in front of me-"_

"_Angel of music, you deceived me!"_

"_Talk some sense to me-"_

"_Past the point of no return… The final threshold!"_

"_Don't throw your life away for my sake!"_

"_His life is now a prize which you must earn…"_

"_I fought so hard to free you,"_ Raoul moaned, blue gaze flickering between Christine and Kayla.

"_Past the point of no return…"_

"_Angel of music, you deceived me_…" Christine's eyes welled up with tears. She clutched Kayla's hand like a lifeline. "I gave you my mind… blindly."

"You try my patience. Make. Your. Choice."

"Erik, please…" Kayla whispered.

Christine stepped into the water, the lace of the wedding dress floating around her legs like a halo. "_Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known? God give me courage to show you, you are not alone_!"

And she kissed him.

Kayla bit her lip, hard. Christine kissed the Phantom with a fervor Kayla had not expected from the young soprano. Her pale fingers slowly traced up his chest, resting gently on his shoulders. The Phantom's hands hovered over her waist, shaking but never touching. Jealousy coiled in Kayla's stomach, a drop of blood beading on the curve of her bottom lip.

_You should be in her position_, her mental voice muttered.

Kayla rolled her eyes. _Dear god, is this really the time? _

_It's always the time. _

_Nope. It's not. This is going to help shape him as a person in the future. Look at him, he loves her. Christine is accepting him. _

_Christine's fucking up a perfectly good Opera Ghost, is what she's doing. Look at him. He's got anxiety_.

When she finally drew back, Christine looked up at the Phantom with lidded, wondering eyes. Behind their entwined forms, Raoul stared on in abject horror. Kayla almost laughed. For a few seconds, the opera ghost did not react, his gaze locked on the soprano's face with a motionless intensity. Nothing reached Kayla's ears but a distant melody, the Phantom's quiet exhale, and her own heartbeat.

Slowly and shakily, Erik began to smile.

His green eyes blossomed with love and awe, the tension and rigidity of years of loneliness melting from his harsh features. His happiness tore a hole through Kayla's chest.

It didn't last.

Tears trickled down his cheeks, and his shoulders began to quiver. His hand rose timidly towards Christine's cheek, but it immediately dropped to his side as he turned away, letting go of the rope which held Raoul. Water splashing gently around his calves, the Phantom of the Opera waded towards the stairs. Music swelled, and the distant sounds of angry shouts echoed through the tunnels. Spinning back, Erik roared across the cave at the completely baffled nobleman, his hands balled into fists, shoulders hunched. He looked more like a beast than ever before, eyes wild, chest heaving, teeth bared. "_Take her! Forget me! Forget all of this!_"

Wasting no time, Christine rushed across the lake and tugged hard at the ropes around her fiancée, being none too gentle with their removal, if the grunts of pain from the nobleman were any indication. The soprano did not appear concerned; if anything, judging by the fearsome scowl on her face, she could not care less about Raoul's comfort at the moment.

Erik staggered up the stairs, waving his arm frantically behind him, his movements jerky and weak. "_Leave me alone… forget all you've seen ._ . ." Christine finally removed the rest of the ropes, and Raoul lunged to embrace her. To Kayla's unfathomable surprise, the younger woman shoved her fiancé away, chocolate eyes blazing. Shock plastered across his face, the Vicomte staggered back, hitting the gate with a loud clang. The Phantom, however, was not paying attention. "_Go now - don't let them find you! …Take the boat - leave me here - go now, don't wait_..."

That was new, Kayla noticed distantly. Musical lyrics. Interesting. Unfortunately, the way Erik's wet shirt was slipping off his chest as he stumbled closer to her was quite diverting…

No. Not at the most dramatic part of the movie. No.

"_Just take her and go_…" Erik moaned, "…_before it's too late... Go_..." He nearly tripped, and Kayla lunged forward to grab his arm. Holding him steady, she wrapped her hand around his forearm, pulling him the last few inches up the stairs. Then she let him go, even though everything in her was screaming to hold on.

She expected him move away, not reach back and clutch her wrist like a lifeline.

"_Swear to me, that you'll never tell_…" The Opera Ghost pulled Kayla behind him as he limped up the steps to the organ. "…_The secrets you know, of the Angel in Hell_…" His pleas became more frantic, the notes harsh and snarled, pain seeping through every crack in his voice. When Christine made no move in response, despite the frantic Vicomte trying without success to drag her away, the Phantom's voice deepened, his scream more demonic than angelic. The pressure around Kayla's wrist increased. "Go now - go now and leave me!" Letting go of her wrist, Erik walked away from Kayla, collapsing on a chair beside the organ, staring at the papier-mâché music box sitting on a ledge, surrounded by the dripping wax of flickering candles. The tinkling melody began to drift from the box, the turbaned monkey softly tapping his cymbals together. His voice was gentler than a sunrise, the quiet notes almost drowning out his singing.

"_Masquerade..._

_Paper faces on parade..._

_Masquerade..._

_Hide your face,_

_So the world will_

_Never find you_..."

"Christine, let's go," Raoul pleaded, reaching for his fiancé's arm.

Christine smacked his hand away, prodding him in the chest with one sharp finger warningly. "No. This is what will happen: you are going to take me back upstairs. Then you will call your bloody carriage and leave."

"Yes, my dear, we will go home together –"

"You are not hearing me, Raoul. I am staying with Meg and Madame Giry. You are leaving, as soon as you lead me upstairs."

"Christine, you are obviously very upset, and – Ow!"

The girl poked him hard in the sternum. "Take me. Upstairs. Now. I will not repeat myself."

"Of course, my love, but we shall be sure to speak more of this when we are…"

Christine hissed. "_We_ are currently not _anything_, Raoul. '_Them'_, you said. I may be young and naïve, but I am not a brainless fool. We were engaged, but I saw how you looked at her. I know the difference between the platonic and romantic."

Raoul opened his mouth, but Christine cut him off sharply. "You don't get to say anything. Get in the boat. I have goodbyes to say."

Wary of the tense atmosphere, Kayla forced herself to hold back the cheer bubbling up in her throat. Christine practically glided through the water towards the stairs, stepping up them gently, the wet fabric slipping across the ground without a sound until she was standing in front of Kayla. "Come with me, Kayla."

Kayla snorted. "I don't think that you want me anywhere near you. I inadvertently seduced your fiancé, after all."

Laughing, Christine shot a smirk back at Raoul, who was standing beside the gondola, completely befuddled. "I don't believe you had anything to do with it. I should have known… I'm not the only fool of a ballerina to have thought a nobleman in love with me."

"Historically speaking, yeah, you're right."

"He does not deserve either of us. He was going to make me give up my career anyway… I love to sing, and I will not give it up. Maybe if he changes, our relationship can work. But not if he ogles other women when I am not paying attention."

"He does love you, though. In his own way."

"It does not mean that I do not deserve better."

Kayla wrapped her arms around the young primadonna, squeezing her tightly. "Don't ever change, Miss Daäe."

Christine returned the embrace fondly. "We need to go, Kayla. The Populaire must be in an uproar."

"The Populaire needs you," Kayla agreed, tightening her hug before letting go and stepping back.

Realization dawned on Christine's face. "You are not coming with me."

Kayla shook her head. "No."

"Do I get to know why?"

"It would take quite a long time to explain."

There was a moment of silence, but Christine nodded. "Will I see you again?" The young girl's voice shook only slightly.

"I hope so, baby."

Pale hands angrily swiped tears off even paler cheeks, and there was an audible sniffle. But when Christine looked back at Kayla, her chin was raised and her gaze firm, even as drops hung glittering from her eyelashes. She held out her hand expectantly. Kayla took it, and they shook hands, pouring every wish of luck and happiness for the other through their fingertips. "You were too outlandish for the Populaire, anyway," the young soprano stated offhandedly, a smile tugging at the corner of her rosebud mouth.

"Very true," Kayla agreed. "Tell the crew I said goodbye?"

"Of course." She hesitated, but then stepped forward and hugged Kayla again. "Goodbye, Kayla. You will always be one of my most treasured friends."

It was so cliché that Kayla almost laughed, but it turned into a sob as it crossed her lips. "Bye, Christine. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Wouldn't dream of it." With that, the soprano stepped away, holding her gaze for a moment more before she approached the huddled Opera Ghost.

His lips were still moving along to the melody as Christine stood behind him, hands fidgeting. Slowly turning around, the Phantom gazed up at her, sad and hopeful. With a firm tug, she slipped the blue-stoned ring off of her finger, taking his hand and placing it in his palm, gently coaxing his hand closed around it.

"_Christine, I love you…" _

A small, sad smile hovered around her mouth, and she nodded. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to the top of his disheveled head. Turning, she walked back into the water and clambering confidently into the gondola. Raoul, standing in the stern, pole in hand, reached out a hand to help her, but was ignored as she climbed into the bow. The visibly upset Vicomte steered the boat away, the pair floating away down the canal, the only sound the lapping of water against the hull. Rising to his feet, Erik gazed after her, fist still clenched around the ring. "_You alone can make my song take flight_…" Walking past Kayla, he moved weakly down the shallow steps and towards a large drapery, which he tugged out of the way, revealing a gold framed mirror much taller than he was. Picking up a large metal candlestick, his green eyes turned to steel, and he raised it over his shoulder, teeth bared and muscles flexing. "_It's over now, the music of the night_..."

With a yell, he slammed the candlestick against the mirror, the glass shattering, black spider web cracks skittering across the silvery surface. Yanking away another curtain to uncover another mirror, Erik repeated the action, his movements ferocious, and again, and again, and again…

A red velvet curtain rippled to the floor, scarlet pooling around Erik's feet. Glass fell with a crash to the stone floor, crystalline shards crushed like sand beneath his boots. An open maw of darkness loomed behind the jagged edges of the broken glass. That was the door. It was over.

The candlestick clattered to the floor, and Erik's arms dropped limply to his sides, shoulders hunched, defeated. Metallic clangs echoed around the lair, even as the shouts of angry men echoed down the tunnels.

"All stories must end," he muttered. "All angels must fall."

"But you didn't leave an inferno behind you, I'll give you that."

Erik turned his head just enough that Kayla could see him looking at her out of the corner of his eye. The undamaged side of his lips quirked. "I did tell you, after all, I could not bring myself to destroy something that means so much to you."

They stood in companionable silence for a moment.

"Is this where my story ends? In your world?"

Lowering her gaze, Kayla stared at the stone floor. "I don't know. There's a gap… years where everything changes and I don't get to see any of it. It's been changed already. There's an epilogue, of sorts…"

"In the empty shell of the Populaire?"

She nodded. "An auction. And you're still a presence there. I don't know what I've changed anymore…" She took a deep breath, trying to settle her breaking voice. "I feel like I ruined everything."

When she looked up, he was standing over her, hair wild, eyes pained. His hands were reaching out, hovering over her shoulders. "You ruined nothing, my little magician. You let the light in when my world was dark, and I will never repay you for it."

Letting out a sob, she lunged forward and threw her arms around his neck, burrowing her face into his shoulder. Shaking, he wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her gently. She pulled away after a couple of seconds, sniffling. Catching her cheeks with his palms, he drew her back, letting their foreheads rest against each other. Kayla's eyes drifted shut. "I'm going to miss you."

"No matter what happens after this, Kayla, I will try my best to be a better man. _I will use you as a focal point, so I do not lose sight of what I want._"

His singing voice drifted against her ear like silk. Smiling, she slowly sang back. "_I've moved further than I thought I could, but I'll miss you more than I thought I would._"

Her husky alto and his velvety baritone overlapped in a melancholy harmonization, the final line drifting through the air like a goodbye. "_And I'll use you as a warning sign, that if you talk enough sense that you'll lose your mind_…"

His mouth was temptingly close to hers. Before she could lose her nerve, she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his waxy cheek, distantly noticing the ridges and bumps as surprisingly soft. He exhaled shakily, and she ghosted her fingers across the large, musical hands over her cheeks. It took everything in her to force herself to step away. "I love you. You know that, right?"

Erik's chin quivered, his perfect lips drawing his entirely stunning face into a beaming grin. "I do now."

She let a laugh bubble through her chest. Grabbing his hand, she led him towards the yawning mouth of the tunnel. As they reached the entrance, he pulled her back into him, resting his chin on the top of her head. "I don't want to go," he said, his voice childlike.

"No one does. Come on, follow me. We have lives to start, you and I." She took a step into the tunnel.

When she looked back, torchlight framed his silhouette in wisps of scarlet flame. "What happens to you?" he asked.

She snorted. "I have no idea. You?"

His hand merely tightened over hers.

Taking a deep breath, and tugging the Phantom after her, she strode into the darkness.

* * *

Meg reached the lair first, wide eyes darting frantically over the shadows before she realized that it was empty.

A pale hand squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. The ballerina turned and smiled at her best friend, the blonde and brunette instinctively taking each other's hands as they walked on.

The two girls splashed through the dark water, clambering up onto the stone steps. Unable to contain her curiosity, Meg darted forward, kneeling down next to a table by the organ. A little papier-mâché monkey kept a silent rhythm with its tiny cymbals, candlelight sending sparkles of bronze over the porcelain mask next to it. Sliding her small hand under the curves of white, Meg lifted the mask closer to her, peering at it quizzically. Christine knelt reverently beside her. The two girls were casually peering about when the rest of the mob emerged from the canals, and no one cared enough to notice the porcelain mask clutched tightly in the soprano's hand. With the music box still tinkling away, the hunters searched through the lair, and no one but Meg and Christine paid attention to the sketches layered over a desk, papers fluttering down to the floor. A dancer, a stage, a shy beauty in a diamond dress, a skeleton draped in red, and a blonde in a top hat. "Good luck, Kayla," Meg whispered.

Christine nodded, her gaze caught by charcoal markings of two laughing faces, one masked in black, and the other in white, the sketched eyes fixed on each other. "_Au_ _revoir_, angel. _Au_ _revoir_, magician."

Behind them, the red velvet curtain trailed elegantly over shards of glass.

* * *

**Do you guys hate me yet?**

**I'm sorry it took so long to get this chapter up, I had so many papers to write, and then I was in Victoria for a training camp, and... yeah. Excuses, excuses, I know. But I really appreciate all the love and concern guys, and don't worry, after all this work, I am not giving up this story until it's done. **

** Thanks to LeaAthena, nursherri, hannah2088, and MusicIsMyStyle1 for the follows/faves, whom I couldn't PM, and to AvidReader, Guest, Liandra2428, and Guest for their guest reviews. And to everyone else who read, faved, followed, etc, thank you as well. **

**It's not over yet.**

**love Tierney**


	57. Chapter 57

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, nor do I own "I'll be Good" by Jaymes Young**

* * *

57

A shiver ran up and down Kayla's spine, and she opened her eyes.

The first thing she saw was her reflection in the rear view mirror. Her hands were resting on the steering wheel, her little black kitten plush staring at her with wide white eyes from the dashboard. Sure she was caught in a dream, she ran her hands along the warm leather of the seat beneath her, sticking her hands in the pockets of her parka, watching snowflakes tricking out of a charcoal sky. She leant her head against the wheel and willed herself not to cry.

Something around her neck clinked, and she frowned, sitting back up and tilting her chin down to peer at her chest.

The petals of a ruby rose glittered at her from the centre of her chest, nestled in the navy blue puff of her parka. Barely breathing, she ran her fingers along the gold chain, hands meeting at the back of her neck.

No clasp. But the chain had lengthened, and it was more like a dangling necklace than the tight, hollow-of-her-throat pendant it had been for the past six months. She could take it off now, if she wanted.

She never wanted to take it off.

Glancing over at the passenger seat, Kayla noted with shock the elegant gold bag overflowing with pearly tissue paper, tied with a curling crimson bow. She recognized the materials as being from her gift wrapping box, but she had no memory of putting such a package together. She snuck a look at the clock; it was 5:55. How, after all this, was she early?! The card she had drawn - could it really be yesterday that she had drawn the roses and musical notes? - perched between the tissue paper and the edge of the bag. Neat black cursive was visible: _Have a phantastically happy birthday Sam, love big sis_. Oh my god. It was still the day of Sam's party. In February. The same day she left.

Uncaring of the consequences, Kayla yanked the knot apart and hurriedly pulled out the tissue paper, peering into the bag at the creamy bundle beneath. Gingerly lifting the package into her lap, she peeled away the layers. Beneath the folds of paper, cavernous eye sockets peered back at her. Curling her hands under the edges, she brought the mask closer to her face. Ridged cheekbones, dark eyes, bone cool against her skin. There was a scent of velvet, of parchment and candle wax and decadence and decay. It was his.

Reluctantly, she re-wrapped the Red Death face and shoved it back into the bag, stuffing the other sheets of tissue paper over it and half-heartedly tying the silk ribbon. There. Now it looked like something she wrapped in a hurry. Pulling the keys out of the ignition, the metal unfamiliar in her hand, she shoved open the car door, grabbed the package, and clambered out. Snow crunched under her boots as she walked up her parents' stone stairs and rang the doorbell.

Samantha opened the door immediately. "Kayla!" she squealed, springing forward and locking her arms around her older sister's waist.

"Hey Sammy!" Kayla croaked, dazed at the feel of her little sister's familiar hug. "It's great to see with you, baby!"

Samantha looked up at her quizzically. "You make it seem like it's been years. We facetimed yesterday, remember?"

No. She did not remember.

"You know me, I don't remember what I had for breakfast this morning."

Technically it wasn't a lie.

"But whatever, it's still nice to see you!"

"Kayla, baby, you don't have to knock! Where's your key?"

Kayla's lips quirked. "Hi Mom."

"Let me take your coat, baby, it's really nice to see you..." Her mother tugged the parka from her shoulders, and Kayla shrugged it off, handing the garment off with a smile.

Samantha was still beaming at her. "I love your vest!"

"Um, thanks?" Kayla, taken aback, glanced down at her shirt.

"What's wrong, honey?"

Kayla shook her head and smiled, forcing her gaze away from the silky swirls of red on black of the waistcoat, tugging the cuffs of her black dress shirt self-consciously. "Nothing's wrong; just in a daze, that's all."

Samantha ran a knuckle over the vest. "It's so pretty!"

Her mother frowned. "It is nice, but it's a little bit much for a family dinner... But never mind. Did you get it at Hot Topic?"

Kayla shrugged and smiled, too shocked to come up with another response. _How many things could have possibly survived that trip?_

She was immediately thrown back into the family fray, as grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins streamed into the house, bearing colourful boxes and bags. Sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, she listened to loud greetings and conversations echoing around her, responding to the standard hellos and inquiries with an enthusiasm that she did not feel. Samantha whipped around the house, a train of cousins at her heels, silver laughter pealing over the chatter.

It was surreal to sit at a glass table, on high backed padded chairs, with cutlery that matched. Even weirder were the dishes being passed around the table: penne interspersed with chicken and basil and oil; salad with peaches and blue cheese; baked carrots and sweet potatoes caramelized with brown sugar and maple syrup. When a bowl of rolls travelled by, Kayla lunged forward and grabbed three before passing it on. Dropping the rolls on her plate, she looked up. The entire table was staring at her quizzically.

"Yes, hi, can I help you?"

"Mommy, Kayla took three buns!" Her cousin Trevor tugged on Aunt Michelle's sleeve to enhance his impatient whine. Four years old.

"Your insight is incredible, thank you." Flashing an incredibly sarcastic grin at the child, Kayla tore off a piece of the bread. She remembered the sourdough of a dark kitchen, and the bun began to taste like sawdust.

"But Mommy, you said we could only have one!" Trevor complained.

Kayla slathered her sawdust bread with butter and took a bite. It wasn't an improvement.

"It's not fair!"

Snatching her flute, Kayla shot back the glass of champagne, slamming it back down on the table with a thump. "Listen, my child, I have had a trying day and I shall eat as many buns as I goddamn please."

Shocked silence fell around the table. Then Sam giggled. Once it was clear that the birthday girl was unaffected by the outburst, the tension eased and the conversations resumed. Trevor, however, glared at Kayla across the table. The girl stuck her tongue out at him.

After dinner and cake, the guests gathered in the living room to watch Samantha open her presents. As she pulled out the creamy paper and stared into the bag, Samantha's eyes shot up to stare at Kayla. "_No_. _Way_!"

There were numerous exclamations of curiosity, and with a grin, Samantha pulled out the mask and held it over her face. Trevor screamed. Kayla laughed. But mostly there was confusion. "What is it?" asked Mom fondly.

"It's the Red Death mask from the Phantom of the Opera!" Sam squealed, lowering the mask and staring at it lovingly. "It looks just like the movie one, oh my gosh, Kayla, I love it! Thank you thank you thank you!"

"Maybe you should give it back to Kayla; she's the one dressed like a tragic Goth artist," smirked Cousin Jeff. Kayla, resisting the urge to five-star him across the face, settled for a none-too-gentle punch in the shoulder instead.

"Ow! Hey! Jesus, Kayla! Did anyone see that Kayla just punched me?"

"You're a college freshman, Jeff," his dad yelled from across the room. "You're not twelve anymore."

Jeff recoiled, bringing an offended hand to his sternum. "I object to that remark most strongly."

For a moment, Jeff's blonde buzz cut and grey eyes faded behind a sudden flash of hazel eyes and brown curls, and the echo of a teasing voice. Kayla shivered, and the mirage melted away.

She didn't stick around long after that, making her excuses with a much regret as she could muster.

In her own apartment, curled up in her own bed, Kayla woke in the middle of the night, reaching out for boots that didn't exist, with a burst of adrenaline for a rehearsal that never happened. As she recognized her own furniture, she realized that she wasn't in the dormitory. There wasn't a rehearsal to get to. She was completely alone.

She did not sleep for the rest of the night.

* * *

Her eyes were still open when the sun rose, casting pale gold rays over the duvet, glittering off the jeweled petals of the rose she clutched like a lifeline. The warmth that used to radiate from it had faded away, and it felt just as cold as any other piece of jewellery she owned. Glancing over at the clock on her bedside table, green numbers flashed at her: 11:00 AM. From its position on the charging dock, her phone screen lit up, a notification reminding her that there was a Theatre Calgary party to celebrate another completed play, along with a company meeting at the same event. Kayla moaned and buried her head back into her pillow. That was the thing, she supposed, about coming back; there was actually a life she had to keep up, a life she had not lived for months. Sitting up slowly, she hunched over her knees, massaging her temples. She wanted nothing more than to crawl back under the covers and never come out. She could feel the blackness reaching out for her from the corners, trying to pin her down under despairing claws. She'd felt this blackness before, and god be damned she had had enough. "Okay, okay… You can do this, you can do this… Up out of the bed. Goddammit, Kayla, what would _he_ say?! You survived for six months in a foreign country and a different time period, you can at least get out of bed and chill around your apartment for a bit." She coaxed herself to the edge of the bed, and very slowly scooted out of it. Her toes sank into the grey carpet. She took a deep breath. "Okay, just another day. Let's go."

Her first order of business was to unpack her bag.

She sat on the floor, a croissant stuffed in her mouth, pulling items out of the purse and spreading them out on the floor around her. Her wallet, with her licence, credit cards, and Canadian and British money; her agenda, timetable, and university transcripts; a small bag of cosmetics; costume makeup brushes; her sketchbook and drawing pencils were there, but her watercolours and brushes were gone; and her pink earbuds, the colour faded now. Deeper down, there was a black silk domino, and a scrap of cerulean satin. All that remained of her masquerade. A glance at the clock notified her that it was noon, so she clambered to her feet, walked into the kitchen, poured herself a tumbler of rum, and returned to the living room, plopping back down on the carpet with a scowl. She took a sip of the burning liquid, the droplets of rum remaining on her tongue long after. Leaning against the edge of the couch, she tilted her head back and shut her eyes. The darkness behind her lids flickered with candle flame, the sombre notes of an organ echoing in her ears. It felt like home. So, keeping her eyes firmly closed, she let herself drift.

"_I thought I saw the devil, this morning_

_Looking in the mirror, drop of rum on my tongue_

_With the warning to help me see myself clearer_…"

The rum glass, still half full, sat abandoned on the kitchen counter. Kayla stood in the bathroom, tugging on the hem of her blouse and nervously adjusting the cuffs of her blazer. She was wearing makeup, normal makeup, for the first time in what felt like years; sharp wings of black liner, tones of grey and aqua eyeshadow, mascara, and bright pink lipstick. The pendant swung back and forth like a bloody pendulum against the robin's egg blue of her shirt. Music trickled through the narrow halls of her apartment, echoing against the bathroom tile as if through a theatre.

"_I never meant to start a fire,_

_I never meant to make you bleed,_

_I'll be a better man today,_

_I'll be good, I'll be good_

_And I'll love the world, like I should_

_Yeah, I'll be good, I'll be good_

_For all of the times that I never could."_

Did she? Did she make him a better man? She didn't know. The thought was so terrifying that she returned to the kitchen and retrieved the rum, tossing it back with one gulp. It stung on the way down her throat, much harsher than the wine she was now used to. She went back to the couch and sat down again, staring at her phone. Half an hour until the party started. Scrolling through her messages, she clicked on a name and started to type.

Kayla: Can you pick me up? I may have had a drink

Melissa: …

M: One drink, you say?

K: …

K: maybe 2

M: haha you wildcard

M: Yeah, I'll pick you up. Five minutes?

K: For sure, I'll be ready. Thx.

Locking the screen, she tossed it onto the couch beside her and let her head fall back. Melissa was the one of the assistant heads of the fashion department; born and raised in Toronto, with a degree in fashion design from a well-known school in Milan. Rich, smart, and unbelievably nice. It was a wonder Kayla even associated with her, let alone being her current closest friend…

_Your best friend_ _**here**__…_ her mind corrected.

"_My past has tasted bitter for years now,_

_So I wield an iron fist_

_Grace is just weakness_

_Or so I've been told._

_I've been cold, I've been merciless_

_But the blood on my hands scares me to death_

_Maybe I'm waking up today…"_

Kayla shot to her feet and switched off the stereo. Her time abroad was too real to be reminded of it for any longer. Three minutes later there was a knock on the door. "Hey gurl, hey!" Kayla ignored the bottle of wine Melissa was holding and flung her arms around her friend. "Hey, Kayla, nice to see you too, you okay?"

"It's been a rough day," Kayla mumbled. Understatement of the century.

"Well, my friend, first things first more drinks for you. I'll even abstain to be your DD," Melissa smirked. They walked down the stairs, Kayla stumbling slightly in her flats, and Melissa being, of course, as graceful as ever in her five-inch heels. They climbed into the car, and the engine roared to life. The song that began playing through the speakers was the same one Kayla had just shut off in her apartment.

"_For all of the light that I shut out_

_For all of the innocent things that I've doubt_

_For all of the bruises that I've caused and the tears_

_For all of the things that I've done all these years…_"

"You don't mind Jaymes Young, do you?" Melissa peered at Kayla out of the corner of her eye. "Is it too sad for your state of mind?" Kayla shrugged. "It's almost over, it'll switch to Rhianna in a minute." For thirty seconds, they sat in silence, Kayla holding back tears as she tried to keep a phantom's face out of her mind.

"_Yeah, for all of the sparks that I've stomped out_

_For all of the perfect things that I doubt_

_I'll be good, I'll be good_

_And I'll love the world, like I should_

_Yeah, I'll be good, I'll be good_

_For all of the times I never could._"

* * *

**Author's Note: I'm sorry.**

**Thanks to all y'all for sticking with me, and for the guest reviews from Minha, Liandra2428, Guest, Hayley Brunz, Leopard, and to the non-PM-able SilentLove 2700 for the follows, faves, and review.**

**I'm sorry that it took so long. Again. It's almost finals season again, and I still have papers and midterms due, plus course registration for next year. And, in other news, I am going on an exchange. To England. For a month. **

**I've been accepted into the International Summer School at a university in the UK, which apparently has the best creative writing program in the world. And what will I be studying there? Creative writing! So, in the end, that can only benefit you guys. **

**Thanks for your patience, everyone, and I love you all. **

**Tierney**


	58. Chapter 58

**It should be clear at this point that I do not own Phantom of the Opera, just my own material.  
**

* * *

58

The black satin of her skirt swished against her legs as she moved through the crowd of people, clutching her champagne glass like a lifeline. Melissa was somewhere else, floating with ease throughout the party. Kayla stopped to chat with a few of her crewmates, exchanging pleasantries about projects that had been months ago for her but mere days to everyone else.

When she ran into her overseeing set manager, she bit back an apology for missing days of work that did not exist.

During a conversation with one of her fellow design coordinators, she subtly steered the conversation in such a way that he reminded her of what show they were preparing for, without him suspecting a thing.

She almost called one of the directors "Reyer", a slip up which either went unnoticed or was ignored as a product of exhaustion and champagne.

She wasn't sure when the hand stopped her.

"Ms. Abbots? Kayla Abbots?"

Kayla turned. A woman was standing there, tall, curvaceous. Dark hair up in an elegant up-do, curls hanging elegantly about her face, perfect makeup, the works. "Oh my god, it is you!" She leant forward and shook Kayla's hand, her dark grip strong. "Sorry, hello, I'm Carolyn, Carolyn Baker." Her voice was caramel, smooth and soothing, tinged with a hint of something that drifted over Kayla like the feeling of home. "I saw your work on the staging of _King_ _Lear_ last year. Very modernist, quite beautiful."

Kayla tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear and tried not to act nervous. "Uh, thanks." _Bravo, Kayla. Bravo,_ her brain chided. "I was just an assistant, didn't do too much there."

"Nonsense. I've been looking into your design portfolio, and your resume is really quite wonderful. I took the liberty of consulting with some of your colleagues at the theatre and at your university? I hope you'll forgive the trespass."

"Oh, it's no problem."

Carolyn smiled, her wineglass balancing delicately between her fingertips. "I apologize for being indirect, but you speak French, yes?"

The grin emerged without prompting. "I feel like the only Albertan outside Quebec who's even partially fluent, yes," she joked. "Quebecois, though, but I think I remember some Parisian."

She remembered more than "some" Parisian.

"That's wonderful, actually. I shall attempt to be more direct now." There was a pause as Carolyn took a sip of wine, and Kayla attempted to keep herself from chugging her glass of champagne out of sheer anticipation. "I am one of the directors at the Opéra National de Paris and National Academy of Music, and I'd like to offer you an internship."

The lilt in her voice caught Kayla's attention. "Oh my god; you're French. Like the Nationale Academie? In Paris? France?"

Carolyn laughed. "Yes, yes. Your role would be that of a teaching assistant, and you would also be one of our artists in residence at the Academy."

"Oh my god."

"Additionally you would help to stage operas, ballets, and other works at the Palais Garnier for the upcoming season."

"For how long?"

"Anywhere from six months to a year, starting in August. Ideally longer, but we understand that we all are overly committed to our schedules. Some of our resident artists end up being invited back to contribute to future seasons. Is this an opportunity in which you would be interested?"

Paris, France. Possibly the most stereotypical place she could end up after all of this.

Kayla tipped her entire champagne glass into her mouth. Setting her glass down on the tray of a passing waiter, she reached forward and shook Carolyn's hand.

"Absolutely."

* * *

"…the local time is eleven thirty p.m. Please remain in your seats until the plane comes to a complete stop. On behalf of the captains and crew thank you for choosing Air Canada…"

Kayla's eyes fluttered open, and she gently began to roll out her stiff neck. Around her, the clatter of passengers stowing their carry-ons and laptops began to fill the cabin. She pushed the window screen up and peered out into the darkness.

As she leaned against the glass, the city of Paris shimmered through the mist below.

* * *

**More to come.  
**

**xo Tierney  
**


	59. Chapter 59

**I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. Obviously.**

* * *

_Three years later…_

"_Puis-je s'il vous plaît obtenir sept de ces tartes aux bleuets et ... un de ceux fraises aussi. Et trois des pommes honeycrisp s'il vous plaît. "_

_"Bien sûr, mademoiselle…_"

With a crinkle of paper, the shop keeper packaged the pastries and apples. Coins clinked. Striped blue bag in hand, Kayla strode away from the stall. A cloud of red and black flowers swirled above her head, and the rain trickled off and fell in soft droplets to the pavement below. Blue-grey light trailed from the sky, illuminating Kayla's hands like candlelight. She tilted her head, pearls of rain beading on her forehead. A layer of water covered the city, blurring every colour and turning the streets of Paris to paint.

Crunching between her teeth, the apple ran circles over her tongue as she unlocked the side door. Kayla shook out her umbrella, letting the cloud of flowers fold back into nothing. With a flick of a switch, the generator hummed, and lights flickered. Her boots clunked on the wooden staircase as she tromped up and threw her purse into her locker on the balcony. Rain thrummed against the windows of the music room, and ripples danced across the honey floor of the studio. With the jangle of keys, she unlocked the door of her office and gently set the bag on her desk. Her fingers trailed gently over the dark wood frame, lamplight glinting off a square of dark blue taffeta.

Shedding her blue raincoat, she hung it from the back of the door and ignored the little drops of water dripping onto the carpet.

Lamplight shimmered across the framed sheets by the door, the gold letters flickering.

**University of Calgary**

Kayla Delaine Abbots

BFA, BFA - Honours

Bachelor of Fine Arts – Visual Art Design

Bachelor of Fine Arts – Drama: Set Design and Costuming

**Opéra National de Paris et le Nationale Academie**

Kayla Delaine Abbots

For a Year of Excellence and Commitment

Theatre – Fashion and Set Design

Picking up the bag again and letting her office door swing shut behind her, she strode through the hall as the Palais Garnier slowly came to life. "Abbots, _bonjour_!"

"Bonjour!" She tossed a pastry over the railing.

"_Fraise? Shit, fraise! Merci!"_

The other pastries were deposited elsewhere, one on a desk downstairs, two on the counter in the box office, one down a stairwell, one into the dance studio into an expectant hand, one on the conductor's podium. She did her rounds, checking up on the computers and mechanics, turning on breakers, tightening ropes, and oiling gears. Every piece of the main set in its proper place. Each costume in the dressing room labelled with a name, next to a box of jewellery, makeup, and smiling faces stuck in the frames of the mirrors. Gilt mirrors.

She thought that three years out the sheen of a gold frame would have stopped sending curls of flame up and down the back of her neck. Ha.

Every piece and prop organized and accounted for, Kayla leant on the railing of the orchestra pit, watching the dancers warming up. She felt a hand on her shoulder. "I hope I do not interrupt."

"_Bonjour_, Carolyn, what's up?"

Carolyn propped her elbows on the gold rail, swirls of red leotards pirouetting in the dark mirrors of her eyes. Neither spoke for a moment. "Your first opening night as credited set designer. Nervous?"

Kayla's nose scrunched up. "Not nervous so much as terrified."

"Did you have any preference for where you will sit this evening?"

Kayla paused for a moment, listening to the guiding calls of the ballet master. "Isn't everyone in five tonight?"

"I thought I would give you another option, just because the box will be a little crowded… the executives invited the new score writer and a couple of the main sponsoring partners, of course."

"Is this for the originals we discussed at the last _Academie_ meeting?"

"_Oui_. I shall put you in five if you are comfortable with the prospect; I thought you would appreciate advanced warning."

"_Oui_, I do appreciate it, thanks."

Carolyn turned to go.

"Hold up. Who's the score writer?"

"Good question. Hmm… his last name is Durham, I believe. He's Scottish… or French, I can never remember. All I know is that the executive scouted him personally and his recordings sound promising."

Kayla nodded. "Good enough for me." Her fingers ghosted over the rose glittering in the centre of her chest.

* * *

She tugged at the hem of her shirt, fiddling with the wrinkles around the neckline. That shop assistant had been right; the aqua green really did make her eyes pop. It made her trademark rose pendant pop too, if she was being honest. Boots, black jeans, blouse – it was fine, wasn't it? Staring at her reflection, her eyes roved over her makeup, and deemed it the best she could do under the circumstances. Whipping her hair into a high bun, she flipped off her reflection and breezed out of the bathroom. Voices and laughter rang through the air as she passed over the lobby and the throngs waiting in line. She pulled her phone out of her back pocket and sent a good morning message to Samantha before switching it to silent.

Scampering through dark halls, she squeezed past compatriots, clapping crew members on the shoulder, wishing dancers luck, and humming the score under her breath. Her boot heels thumped on the carpet, and she scurried through the backstage and up the stairs to the second level boxes.

"Mademoiselle Abbots! _Bonjour, comment allez-vous, mon cher_?" Carolyn turned to greet her and shook her hand, as did the three executives.

"_Bonjour Carolyn, Monsieur Lorrain, Madame Bowen, Madame Catharine. Bien, merci." _

Carolyn continued in French, gesturing to the men behind her, introducing them as the four representatives of the theatre's main sponsors. "Gentlemen, this is Mademoiselle Kayla Abbots, our international artist-in-residence, assistant stage manager, and the credited designer of this evening's set." Kayla kept the smile plastered on her face, her grip firm and cool as she shook each person's hand.

"I assume Monsieur Durham is running late?"

At Madame Catharine's query, Carolyn checked her watch. "_Oui_, but he should arrive shortly. Shall we find our seats? The main doors open soon."

The dissonant sounds of different instruments testing their keys flowed through auditorium, tinkling melodically against the crystals of the chandelier. As the audience below settled into their seats, the lights dimmed. There was a rap on the box door.

Carolyn sprang up to open it. "Monsieur Durham, a pleasure! Let me introduce you…"

The figure in the doorway was tall. Incredibly so. Over six feet, at least. He held his hands behind his back, his shoulders relaxed. "Everyone, this is Monsieur Durham, our new composer. Monsieur, you've met our executives, of course – "

Kayla looked back at the stage, watching the curtain flutter. Someone was peeking, obviously. She didn't blame them in the slightest.

"– and you'll meet other sponsor representatives later, I'm sure. And here's one of your fellow soldiers, Mademoiselle –"

"Abbots."

Kayla's spine tightened like a metal rod. Heartbeat thundering in her ears, she twisted in her seat and stared up at the figure at the top of the stairs. His face hid in the shadows, but she thought she could see the glint of a smile.

"Mademoiselle Kayla Abbots. The famed set manager."

Kayla stood up. Climbing over the back of her seat, she walked up the shallow steps to where he stood. Carolyn waved her hand at Kayla. "She is one of our best, currently assistant stage manager and the designer of tonight's set pieces. She oversaw most of the work herself."

"I would expect nothing less."

Continuing to pace forward, Kayla stared up as the light from the hallway drifted across his features. With a sharp inhale, she opened her mouth.

"You absolute _motherfucker_."

And then she tackled him.

A shout from the peanut gallery arose as they hit the ground, and Kayla pressed her lips to his cheek, her eyes shut.

"Kayla!" Carolyn's voice barked.

His laughter rumbled through his chest. "It's alright, Madame Baker, it's alright. I know Ms. Abbots." As he sat up, Kayla burrowed herself in his chest, pressing her palm against the hollow of his right cheek. Green eyes glinted in the light. "It's quite alright," repeated Erik. "I know Kayla."

* * *

**Author's Note: More to come. Thank you to everyone who followed, favourited, reviewed, etc. I haven't had time to respond individually, but I appreciate and adore every single one of you. Thank you.**

**love Tierney**

* * *

**Opening Translation (French):**

"May I please get three of those blueberry tarts and… one of those strawberry ones as well. And three of the honey crisp apples please."

"Of course, mademoiselle…"

Taken from Google Translate, so obviously inaccurate. Apologies.


	60. Chapter 60

60

Despite the fact that the performance, as per Garnier standard, staged itself flawlessly, Kayla barely paid attention, letting the colours and movement ripple across her unfocused eyes. The representatives looked impressed as the curtain rose over the stage she designed, and none of the cues were missed. However, the only thing with any clarity whatsoever was the sound of Erik's breathing. Intermission was short enough that Carolyn and the reps simply began a discussion of business, sponsorships for the upcoming season, advertisement, and other such elements outside Kayla's designated department. It was mostly financial, so she flipped through her program, eyes circling over the typed script of her name. _Designer de la stage – Kayla Abbots_.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose slightly as she felt Erik's exhale. His black hair brushed against hers. It was shorter now, slightly tousled, instead of being slicked back. She smelled parchment, ink, roses, and something else. Something more… masculine.

"Are you wearing cologne?"

He snorted.

"Really, dude? Really? It's kinda unfair at this point, Destler – or Durham, whatever the fuck your name is now, you cagey bastard."

"I never intended to be cagey, mademoiselle."

She turned to look at him. "You have to know that you look good enough without smelling like sex on legs."

Shifting in his seat, he cleared his throat. "I did have a number of my students tell me that I resembled Gerard Butler. I personally do not see the similarity."

"Wait, hold up. You have students? Had students? What?"

"At the Royal Academy of Music. I was a teacher's assistant."

She shoved him with her shoulder. "Goddammit, I've been right across the channel for three fucking years, my dude, why didn't you find me?"

But the music swelled, and he didn't answer. Instead, Kayla let her head drop onto his shoulder.

They walked down the boulevard, arm in arm, and although she felt safe in his shadow, the grip on her arm suggested she was not the one being protected. The street lamps glimmered off the wet road, flickering with the ripples descending from the ebony sky. They walked under Kayla's umbrella, close together and oblivious to the rain. "How did you get back? Or here, rather?"

He stayed silent, so she waited, stepping over puddles and crossing deserted streets, tugging at his wrist to lead him. Melted bronze drip, drip, dripped onto the pavement.

"I don't know how I got here."

Questions bubbled in her throat, but Kayla held her tongue and waited.

"I was there, back home, until I wasn't. I couldn't feel your hand anymore, and…" He paused. "Is this important?"

Kayla shrugged. "If it's any consolation, I just popped up in my car outside my parent's house. On the same day I left." Erik snorted. "And after all that," Kayla continued, "I had to stay up till 1 am because I had to socialize. With humans. At a party." She felt his shudder through their interlocked hands. "It's ok. We don't have to talk about it."

"I found an occupation," Erik said finally, fingers tightening around hers. "At the Royal Academy. I assisted teachers, tutored students. I am not quite sure how I managed it."

"People intensive?"

"People intensive," he agreed.

She let her arm swing, carrying Erik's hand back and forth like a pendulum. "I missed you. I thought you were still back there. The amount of time I wasted on social media trying to find you…"

"I still cannot decide whether your technology is helpful or not. So much information, so many tools, with just the push of a button, but it becomes almost, too much, if you understand."

"But you can work a computer? Send an email? You got recordings to the Garnier, why couldn't you find me?"

"Do you know how many Kayla Abbots there are in the world?"

Kayla shook her head.

"Many. I did not know all of the information required to par down the results."

"I use my middle name on most accounts. Kayla Delaine Abbots."

"One of the few details you never imparted. I never even came close to finding you until I was invited to this evening's performance."

For a number of minutes, the only sound was the patter of water on cobblestones.

"You do seem… calmer?" she ventured. "It's not like you were out of control, or anything, but you were… nervous. You seem more comfortable, right now at least."

"Social anxiety. 'It's a bitch', as the therapist would say."

"Therapy?"

"They have psychological services for staff. I thought that I might as well experiment. If anything, I collected strategies to use with my students."

She smiled. "I'm glad."

He waited in the rain while she disappeared into a café, emerging with two travel cups and a paper bag. Looping her arm back through his, they continued down the boulevard. She stopped at the door of an apartment building, eyes narrowing. "I was going to go somewhere… neutral? But we're here now, so…" Her voice trailed off and she tilted her chin up to look at him. "Do you want to come up?"

Erik stared at her blankly, his shoulders hunched slightly.

She laughed. "I'm not propositioning you, dude, do you want to get out of the rain?"

He blinked, and the uncertain familiarity of the gesture told Kayla the new man in front of her was still the same Phantom. But then he nodded, and Kayla laughed again and unlocked the door.

* * *

_One year later…_

She was in the middle of rehearsal when she felt the burning in the centre of her chest. Brushing her fingertips across carved petals, she stifled a curse and hopped to her feet, muttering crossly into her radio and listening to her assistants crackling back. Running through the halls, her boots thumped on the carpet and hard wood left tingling on her palms as she slammed the door open. The dark figure on the piano bench jolted a foot in the air, whipping around and throwing a cushion with all the force of a grenade. Kayla ducked.

"Désolé, mon fantôme. Mon dieu, je suis désolé. Erik, can I talk to you please?"

Huffing, he scribbled a couple dots of black on the sheets in front of him.

"You know my necklace, right?"

He paused.

"It's warm."

Erik swivelled to face her, arms crossed across his chest. "And?"

"It's been cold as ice since I got back."

He shrugged, turned back to the keyboard, and tapped out a couple of notes.

"Erik, if that's 'baby you're as cold as ice' I am going to change the Spotify password. I swear to God."

Sighing, he stood up, unrolling his shirt sleeves and buttoning them around his wrists. "I take it you are concerned?"

"I think it's postscript time, buddy. The final scene."

He stalked towards her, moving predatorily across the floor. Slithering around her, he stared cautiously at the rose flickering in the centre of her chest.

"Oi. Eyes up here, my dude."

"Do you think that you may be overacting, mademoiselle?"

She hummed. "I thought we'd progressed beyond titles, Erik."

Reaching out a finger, he tapped the edge of the pendant. The room flickered, and they stood on cobblestones. Kayla glared up at the clouds of fog. "Jesus Christ. Now it's gonna be gentle, huh?"

"No falling out of the sky for you, mon petite oiseau. Even travel through realms should have some novelty, non?" She had not broken him of the habit of wearing suits, but he now wore a grey cravat, top hat, and a cape. Kayla snorted.

"And my pretentious little ghost is back." Tugging at Erik's hand, she led the way through the cobbled streets, her skirt rustling through piles of crackling leaves.

"Where are we going, Kayla?"

She pulled him through uncanny streets and alleys, almost the same but not quite, ears full of chatter and the sound of horse shoes on stone and ringing bells and wind. Erik followed her alone the pavement, head tilted down, avoiding eye contact with passerby, but none paid them any attention. There was the pub she had gone to with the set crew, the dress shop she browsed with Meg and Christine, the familiar street lamps and cobbles and street corners. They emerged into a square, across which the Opera Populaire rose with grace to rival Notre Dame. "I told you," he murmured. "It did not burn."

She slowly tilted her head at him, widening her eyes. "Oh my god, would you like a medal?" He only chuckled.

Wheels clattering, a carriage rolled into the avenue in front of the Populaire, and sombrely dressed figures ascended the stone steps. A white-robed nurse slowly pushed a rattling wheelchair up a makeshift ramp. Shining top hat, black wrinkles of fabric, lap blankets. A frail hand shaking through dark gloves.

"Wheeeeee." She glanced at Erik out of the corner of her eyes, a smile crinkling around the edges of her mouth. "He didn't age as well as you have."

Erik's hand tightened around hers. A shaky exhale.

"It must be some sort of meeting. Like, for patrons? Or something?" They stared at the shimmering dome for a moment. "Okay. Let's go." She held up the heavy edges of her skirt, careful to keep them from tangling around her boots. She missed the sound of taffeta so close to her skin. Merely feeling empty air behind her, Kayla twisted back to stare at the edge of the square. Erik ducked his head, staring at the ground. Feet darting like little mice under her skirt hem, she returned to him. "Hey. What's up?"

He gestured at his face.

She stared at him blankly.

"I can't exactly walk into the Opera I haunted for my entire life. Looking like this."

"What?" Narrowing her eyes, Kayla huffed. "Oh. That. Yes. I stopped noticing."

"I'm sure you did."

She punched him in the shoulder. Tilting her head to the side, she pulled his hat slightly across his right forehead. The shadow the brim cast was mask enough. "We'll just keep out of the light, move quickly, yeah?" He nodded and took her hand again. "Ready? One, two, three." They walked briskly, hand in hand, across the square.

Kayla led them, head held high, past the footmen waiting by the lobby doors, who did not question their entrance. Heels clicking on the floor of the deserted foyer, she tugged them into an alcove, and down a narrow passage to the backstage. "My fucking skirt is almost too wide to get down here. Like, did magic seriously think I needed a dress with a metre radius?"

"Language, mademoiselle."

"So it's mademoiselle again? Thought we moved past that."

"Nothing that could not return to my vocabulary."

"Jesus Christ…" When she stopped in the middle of the corridor, Erik smacked straight into her back. Kayla stared at the gold lettering on the door. _Ballet Mistress_.

"I am terribly sorry, mademoiselle, but can I be of assistance? The backstage is not open to the public." The voice came clearly, wavering with age but still strong and sweet.

Kayla turned. "Oui, désolé, madame –" And her voice trailed off as she locked eyes with the elderly woman at the other end of the hall.

The figure held a walking stick loosely at one side, white hair streaked with little glimmers of gold piled beneath a black hat with a lace veil. Her posture was delicate, regal, graceful. Her hands were dotted with age spots and blue veins, but a gold band shone from her ring finger. If the way her midnight skirt fell around her ankles was any indication, her feet were in fourth position. They stared at each other blankly for a moment, and then the woman peered at the figure behind her. Her lips parted in a grin.

"C'est Mademoiselle Abbots. Et le fantôme de le opera. Mon dieu, c'est magic."

"_Meg_?"

Meg Giry let her cane rest against the wall and she strode hurriedly towards them. Kayla met her halfway, arms wrapping around the older woman in a gentle hug. "Christ, little Meg Giry, you haven't aged a day," she teased.

The old woman huffed. "It's Baroness Meg Giry Blanchard to you, little mademoiselle, and you're the one who refused to age." Crows feet around her wide blue eyes crinkled. "And Monsieur Angel," she said, gingerly extracting herself from Kayla's embrace and walking forward to peer up at the tall man. "We meet at last."

Erik bowed, letting the light catch his deformed face as he took Meg's hand and pressed a kiss to it. Instead of recoiling, Meg's face glowed. "You did not tell me the Angel of Music was such a handsome young man," she told Kayla. "I would have asked for lessons too." Erik choked, but Meg had already curtsied and returned to the former stage manager.

"What… What are you doing here?"

"James and I are patrons, and I oversee the corps de ballet," Meg smiled. "I danced and was ballet mistress for too many years, but I could not possibly give it up because my bones are old."

Kayla gasped. "James? Blanchard? Jamie's here?!"

"Yes, yes, he will be most thrilled to see you, as long as I am not seeing apparitions in my old age," Meg cackled. "Come along, young ones, we will go to the study and I shall fetch my husband."

* * *

The familiar sound of running feet up the stairs did not exactly match the man who threw open the study door. Though his curls were white and thinning, his cheeks framed by white whiskers, his brown eyes sparked just the same. "Well if it isn't Abbots, triumphantly returned. And immortal, I should say."

"Jamie." Standing and rushing at him, Kayla threw her arms around him. He patted her on the back.

"Careful, Abbots, I'm fragile now. I've matured a little."

Meg snorted. "As if."

"My love, I'm trying to make a good impression on a friend I haven't seen in decades, please don't –"

"You told our son just this morning that you were too arthritic to attend his gala but made plans with your old stage crew to go drink –"

"So literally nothing's changed then?" Kayla interjected.

Jamie beamed at her, hands shaking slightly on her shoulders. "No, no, we're fine. Far too old, but fine, Xavier, Clemens, Marius and I. Baptiste too, I suppose, but he is in the New World now. Quebec." He shook his head ruefully. "Your Canadian-ness rubbed off on him, I suppose."

"And everyone else?"

Jamie snuck a glance at his wife, who glared at him. He cleared his throat. "I don't know why time has not passed for you," he said. "And I do not look for explanations, but time passed for the rest of us here."

Kayla stilled. "Oh."

He smiled at her regardless. "We lived our lives, and that is all we can do. And pray, forgive me, I don't believe we've met." He shuffled past Kayla and stuck his hand out to Erik. "Jamie Blanchard, baron and former pain in Mademoiselle Abbot's ass."

"Erik Des- I mean, Durham. Pleasure." They shook hands.

Jamie winked at Kayla. "So. This is your new boy?" He looked back at Erik and paused. "No. Silly me, this is the composer. Apologies for not recognizing you, good man, but a cape does do wonders for the figure."

"Shut the fuck up, Blanchard."

He wheezed with laughter, and wrung a bemused Erik's hand for a few moments more. "So," he repeated, coaxing his wife onto a couch before lounging beside her. "What have you crazy kids been up to?"

They talked for nearly an hour. Jamie told her how the Populaire had changed after Don Juan; the new management, more extensive patronage, more new operas. Who was still alive. Who was not. Madame Giry had died years ago, and Meg, the prima ballerina of the Opera House, had stepped into the role of the ballet mistress. Only six of her set crew remained. Kayla cried. Carlotta and Piangi still ruled the operatic society in Italy, and still wrote to Meg occasionally. Even though Erik became rigid and even more quiet, Meg gently broached the subject of Christine. "Best primadonna the Populaire ever had. She has her own monument now, with the rest of the Populaire's," she said.

"And the Vicomte?"

Meg's laugh pealed with silver. "Oh, Raoul. He did his best. She married him, eventually, but she kept her name, kept singing, took her babies to rehearsals. Oh, it was scandalous, but the Vicomte learned not to complain."

"He treated her… well?" Erik's question quietly cut through the air.

"Oh, yes. They fought for ages after _Don Juan_, but he learned that she wouldn't respond to him if they weren't equals, so he adapted. They were happy for the last number of years."

In return, she explained everything; the pendant, the travel, getting the job, her knowledge, Erik, and why she had disappeared. The baron and baroness listened attentively, though Meg withdrew at some points to make appearances at the patrons' meeting. "Maggie's better at this people thing than I am," Jamie smirked. "I have a tendency to irritate."

"Whoa, what a startling discovery."

"Hush, little Abbots."

Meg reappeared. "The meeting is nearly over, dear, no thanks to you," she announced, ruffling Jamie's hair.

Kayla jolted upright. "Oh god, we've gotta go. We've got… a thing."

Jamie looked at her quizzically.

"It's one of the elements of this whole looking young thing. Gotta set the stage for another piece of the story, if you will."

Jamie snickered. "Always knew you were a magical girl." As Kayla stood, pulling Erik to his feet behind her, the elderly baron shuffled over to a cabinet. Withdrawing a key from his waistcoat, he unlocked a drawer and drew out a bundle of papers. "Being such prestigious alumni of the Populaire, Maggie and I do get some privileges," he smirked. He held the bundle out to her. "The crew and I wrote you letters. Almost every day. There's a couple in there from the dancers, too. We missed you, and I kept them. I thought you might come back."

Kayla sniffled, running the back of her hands across her eyes. "I'm sorry I can't stay."

Jamie shrugged. "I can say a proper goodbye now. That's all I need." Kayla hugged him again, and then pulled Meg in as well. They stood huddled, then Kayla sighed and let go.

"I love you guys. Both of you."

"Fare thee well, Kayla," Meg said, her papery hands cradling Kayla's.

"Bye, Abbots," Jamie grinned, and for a moment Kayla could see the years fading away into the youthful peers she had known. "And goodbye Fantôme, I suppose," he added with a quirk of his lips. Erik, standing stiffly behind her, somehow managed to smile and bow.

Meg quickly approached and hugged the Opera Ghost. "She forgave you, you know that, don't you?" she murmured. Erik shivered. "It's alright, I shan't push. It does not matter anymore, anyway. But you take care of this one, you hear me?" she continued, pointing a frail finger at Kayla. Erik nodded. "Good."

And with a bundle of letters tucked under her arm, a rose swiped from a passed vase in her fist, and a former Opera Ghost at her heels, Kayla Abbots walked calmly from the Populaire.

* * *

Jamie's carriage driver was more than willing to take them to the graveyard, strangely enough. Kayla didn't complain, and the carriage rolled away as soon as the pair climbed out. Staring up at the iron wrought gate, Kayla inhaled deeply. When Erik's fingers threaded through hers, the reassurance forced her forward, pushing open the gate and slipping inside.

The Populaire plot was right next to the Daäe crypt. Kayla stared down at the headstones, her lungs empty and her heart choking in her chest. Erik's hand curled around her shoulder. "I guess I knew? In some way, I knew. It's not like they were still going to be running around the Populaire. But – "

She put her hand over her mouth, and Erik's chin rested on her head. "But you haven't accepted it." The words ruffled her hair.

Shaking her head, she tried to steady her breath despite the salt stinging her eyes.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "No one expects you to. Not now."

Leaves whispered over stone as wind sang through the Populaire plot.

In the corner closest to the crypt, a miniature of the brunette opera singer was carved into the marble headstone. _Christine Daäe, Vicountess de Chagny. Primadonna. Singer, Patron, Friend. Devoted Wife and Mother_. Kayla rested her head on Erik's bicep as he stood over the grave, shoulders shaking, his fist pressed to his eyes.

Together they laid the rose on Christine's grave, the crimson petals fluttering in the wind. Erik slid the ring onto the stem, tying his customary black ribbon around the thorns. Kayla knelt to add her strand of blue. She pictured Raoul, being pushed in his wheelchair, shakily standing to lay flowers and a music box on the grave, fading blue eyes drawn to the burst of red and sapphire. She wouldn't see the final ending, but that was okay.

Reaching out a hand to Kayla, Erik let her pull him to his feet. "May I?" she asked, holding out her arms with a watery smile.

Green eyes glistening with grief, Erik nevertheless laughed and scooped her up. Her arms wrapped around his neck, his arms circling her waist, they clung together.

He lifted her off the ground and spun her. Their laughter floated through the graves, leaves whirling around their ankles. When they finally vanished from the graveyard, the rose and their echoes remained.

* * *

**xo**


End file.
